


Red Right Hand

by Duckyboos



Series: Murder Ballads [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Barebacking, Blasphemy, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Bloodplay, Bottom Dean, Breathplay, Cat and Mouse Games, Coercion, Dark, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Manipulation, Escalation of Commitment, Gaslighting, Horror, Knifeplay, Librarian Dean, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Minor Character Death, Murder, Murder Husbands, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Past Domestic Violence, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Praise Kink, Professor Castiel, Rimming, Rough Sex, Serial Killer Castiel, Serial Killers, Slow Burn, Sociopathic Behavior, Stalking, Swearing, Top Castiel, Violence, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 85,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4306110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p><br/><i>“You’re one microscopic cog in his catastrophic plan,</i><br/><i>Designed and directed by his red right hand.”</i><br/> </p>
  <p>It all starts with the mysterious note left on Dean’s chair.<br/>It all ends with Dean coming to terms not only with what he’s capable of, but how much that knowledge doesn’t bother him. </p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this story is (initially, as in the first two and a bit chapters) quite heavily based on one of my favourite horror stories. However, I'm going to be taking it in a substantially different direction and it is gonna get quite dark and extremely dirty.
> 
> Updates on Mondays and Thursdays (BST).

Stepping behind the circulation desk after his healthy lunch of a pulled pork sub and a rather large slice of pecan pie, Dean immediately notices the envelope. It’s innocuous enough in and of itself, just _there_ on his seat, but who put it there, and more to the point, why? His first thought is that it could potentially be his payslip, but payday isn’t for another ten days (not that he’s counting down or anything) and there’s nobody else around to ask.

And that realization eclipses his initial thought, because he’s the only one working today and so the library had been closed for his lunch break. He definitely locked the doors before he left because he had to unlock them when he came back.

So the question remains. What the actual fuck?

Maybe it had been placed there before he went for lunch. He _was_ pretty hungry, and nothing gets between Dean Winchester and pie. He could have easily missed it.

Well, whatever. The envelope isn’t going anywhere and so he sets to work on checking out half a dozen mysteries to old Dorothy Wilton. Dorothy is one of his regulars; a mischievous sixty-something with a penchant for Poirot and pinching Dean’s ass whenever he bends over to pick up one of the books that she drops with the express purpose of sexual harassment in mind. Dean isn’t all that bothered, really. Dorothy is harmless and she was the first person to make Dean feel really welcome in his new job as head of the Lawrence Public Library, so he feels like the least he can do in return is play along and allow her a good look at his ass once in a while.

After all, he does have a pretty decent ass. It would be a crime not to share it with someone. Even if that someone is fighting senility and spends at least 90% of her time reading mysteries and the other 10% gossiping about her neighbor Linda Beufort who wears too much make-up.

Dean sighs. He really needs to get laid.

He slips a dated card into the pocket of Dorothy’s last book – a Dick Francis – flips the cover shut, and sets it atop the woman’s stack. “One of his best,” Dean flashes her a bit of the ol’ Winchester charm, smiling wider when Dorothy’s cheeks redden, clearly a little flustered as she hauls out her recyclable bag and begins shoveling the borrowed books into it.

Dean is ready to slip round in front of the desk even before the Christie novel tumbles to the worn carpet, but it turns out that his services are surplus to requirement today, because someone else is already there, bending over, black suit pants stretching enticingly over a rather spectacular ass and Dean is seriously considering upending Dorothy’s entire bag just to keep this floor show going.

“Oh thank you,” Dorothy is suitably ruffled by now and when Dean’s competition for the old woman’s affections finally straightens up and hands her the retrieved book – Endless Night – Dean can most definitely see why. Even his profile is strikingly handsome; sharp jaw with just enough scruff so as to appear artful rather than unkempt, plush pink lips, straight nose and a head full of dark tousled hair. He’s smiling warmly at Dorothy as she muddles her way through their painfully-polite-almost-British conversation, before he turns to Dean, and whatever quip Dean had about this guy stealing his best lady from him dies on his tongue.

His eyes. Blue. So much blue. Like every cliché ever written. It’s almost embarrassing how Dean’s mind immediately jumps to godawful Mills & Boon novels that he would never admit to reading, every lame ocean metaphor there is suddenly crowding out any semblance of cool or wit.

Not that he’s particularly close friends with either of those concepts. More like passing acquaintances that he sees around from time to time, but never really gets past a nod of acknowledgment and an awkward wave.

“Err, yeah. Thanks man. Always nice to have someone else bending over for a change.”

An amused brow-arch is all he gets in response and it takes a second for the double-meaning of his statement to kick in. Dean barely manages to resist the urge to bounce his face off the desk.

Instead, he goes for the marginally less self-destructive route of stammering like an idiot, “So-oo what can I do you for? I mean, do you – do _for_ you?”

_Smooth, like crunchy peanut butter._

Dorothy has long since left in a flurry of rosy cheeks and tittering, and at this rate, Dean may not be far behind.

“I’d like to see if you have a book in, if possible.”  It’s spoken in a soft deep rumble that has Dean thinking less-than-pure thoughts involving that voice growling out obscenities as Dean does wicked things with his tongue.

“Um, of course.” Dean turns to the computer at his left, wiggles the mouse to bring the PC out of sleep and readies his fingers at the keyboard. “Shoot.”

“Palahniuk, Lullaby.”

Dean knows it well, but for the sake of conversation as he types, he says, “Have you read it before? Any good?”

“I’m ashamed to say that I haven’t read anything of his, despite my brother extolling the virtues of Fight Club. I thought it was about time that I rectified that.”

Dean silently agrees. He hits enter and a beat later the requested information appears onscreen, “We have a copy in, yeah. It’s upstairs. I’ll just go grab it for you.” He makes to move out from behind the desk, but once more is stopped by the stranger. The tan trench coat he’s got draped over one arm is pretty ugly, but it’s the only thing about him that is. The dark suit he’s wearing is clearly tailor-made and Dean has always been a sucker for waistcoats.

His brother Sam has rather flippantly suggested that this particular fetish is a direct reflection of Dean’s own sense of decorum and taste. Or lack thereof.

“That’s alright. I’m sure I can find it myself. Thank you for your help.” And with that, Blue Eyes is turning away and striding towards the curved staircase that leads to the first floor.

Dean’s bizarre urge to trail after the man like a lost puppy is curtailed by someone else stepping into the space that Blue Eyes vacated – a vaguely familiar teenager – and she pushes a book towards Dean, cover open and holds her library card out for him to take.

It’s probably a blessing in disguise, because Dean’s pretty sure that he’s filled his daily quota for embarrassing himself.

For the rest of his shift, Dean tries to focus entirely on the patrons, getting to know them better, hoping to show them that he’s friendly and always ready to help in any way possible. He smiles at all the right times, makes all the right noises, even as he’s subjected to more sordid everyday insights than the average shrink.

The mysterious Blue Eyes doesn’t preoccupy his thoughts.

Instead, he lingers just off to the side, where Dean’s mind seems to glance at him from time to time, imagining all kinds of scenarios – some PG-13 and some strictly NC-17 – where Dean gets the opportunity to see him again.

“If you like that one,” he tells a lumberjack type looking dude, “we’ve got a lot more by the same author.”

As the blockade masquerading as a man thanks him and heads for the door, Dean sneaks a quick glance at the clock above the door.

8:47pm. Thirteen minutes ‘til closing. He glances at the remaining people lined up in front of the circulation desk. Six. There’s maybe another dozen scattered about the main reading room, with a few on the way out. None of them are Blue Eyes.

By the time Dean is done checking out books, only a couple of people are still loitering in the reading room. Both regulars. The clock shows that there’s five minutes left to go.

He turns to retrieve his keys from his jacket on the back of the chair and that’s when he spies the envelope again. The same one he hadn’t totally forgotten about, but quite possibly hadn’t prioritized due to the whole ‘hot-guy-in-a-waistcoat’ thing.

Understatement. He’d barely given it a thought beyond a few intermittent moments throughout the afternoon where he vaguely wondered how it got there and who it could possibly be from/for.

Holding it at waist level so that the desk hides it from the view of anyone who might be watching, he flips it over. Handwritten in the center, in black ink, is one word:

DEAN

Well. At least the envelope hasn’t been lost by anyone, so he doesn’t need to worry about trying to find its owner. However, it does distinctly narrow down the possibilities of what could be inside. There’s a tiny, optimistic part of him that wonders if it’s a note from an admirer. Blue Eyes would be too much to hope for, but Dean’s always garnered attention for his looks wherever he goes, and so far it’s proven to be no different here.

It’s not entirely outside the realms of possibility, at any rate.

The flap is sealed and the envelope is pretty thin; the contents no thicker than a sheet or two of folded paper. He picks at a corner of the flap, tears it upwards, thrusting his forefinger into the small hole, working his finger along the seam, ripping upward. As he carefully tears, he lifts his gaze.

Nobody appears to be watching. It’s 8:57.

Returning his attention to the envelope, he removes a folded sheet of paper. He can see the raised dark scribble of handwriting in the other side, and a darkness within. A darkness caused by an extra layer of paper. Paper the size of a bank check or a dollar bill.

And suddenly he feels ridiculous. For the eighty-ninth time today.  

It’s clearly nothing more than payment for a lost book or an overdue fine.

He unfolds the paper. Inside is a stiff, unwrinkled fifty dollar bill.

_Holy shit. Was the book bound in freakin’ gold?_

He sets the bill aside on the desk and reads the carefully scrawled note.

Dear Dean,

Come and play with me. For further instructions, look homeward, angel. You’ll be glad you did.

Warmest Regards, J.

Dean reads it again. And again. Then he looks around. The regulars are still in the reading room, but paying him no attention whatsoever.

It’s 9:01.

“Hey folks, we’re closed now.” He announces a little unevenly, refolding the note around the bill and tucking it back inside the envelope. He slides it into the front pocket of his slacks. “Time to go home to your families.”

When the last is gone – grumbling under their breath like twelve hours isn’t enough time to find a book – Dean locks the front doors behind them and begins the trudge up the stairs to turn off the lights and check that nobody is still skulking in the stacks. Not necessarily in that order. Usually, he doesn’t have much of an issue with it; sure it’s a little creepy, but tonight he’s feeling unsettled by the weird note and just _how_ it got on his chair without him noticing.

And what precisely it means. Clearly, the sender is familiar with literature. The ‘look homeward, angel’ business is almost certainly an allusion to the Thomas Wolfe novel – a book Dean enjoyed in school, but hasn’t looked at since. Though, that said, the ‘come and play with me’ has an eager sort of immaturity to it; the kind of request that a child might make.

Alternatively, there’s the decidedly less innocent way of looking at it; the sexual implications of ‘come and play with me’ are hard to ignore.

_Maybe that’s what the fifty bucks is for?_

Dean has been propositioned in many different ways – a gym shower being the most memorable – but this is a new one. He’s not entirely sure how to feel about it; there’s the initial hit of revulsion, followed by humiliation, and then finally anger. There’s also an unexpected hint of desire mixed in there somewhere, but he ignores that for the moment and focuses on the anger, mostly because it’s easier to explain and quantify.

Then there’s the whole, ‘For further instructions…’ bit. _Further?_ The sender sees this note as the initial instruction? Maybe the further instructions will be given face to face?

Maybe not.

Maybe he’s supposed to go home and look home in his mailbox for further instructions. After all, ‘look homeward’ could be taken at face value.

However, it’s also entirely possible that the further instructions are tucked inside a copy of Look Homeward, Angel. The library’s copy, if not checked out or misplaced, should be on a shelf in the fiction section in the upstairs stacks.

Right where he’s headed.

Dean sighs. There are a metric fuck-tonne of reasons that even _considering_ this is a bad idea.

At best, the note is a seriously weird, misguided attempt to be playful.

At worst, it’s a creepy-as-fuck come on that alludes to Dean either being a hooker, desperate, or easy. None of which are exactly flattering.

He’s so preoccupied with his own thoughts that it takes him a few too many seconds to respond to the door at the top of the stairs bursting open.

As Dean flinches and grapples for the banister with his left hand, a man appears through the open doorway, charging straight for him, only managing to stop inches away from collision.

“Shit, sorry.” The man blurts, clamping a hand to Dean’s shoulder, holding him steady, “Are you okay?”

It’s Blue Eyes. He’s wearing the ugly trenchcoat. Dean barely resists the urge to be rom-com corny and say something like, “I am now.”

“I’m good,” Dean pants instead, pulse jack-rabbit quick, as if he’s just run a marathon, “I’m like a cat; I always land on all fours.”

He doesn’t even have the energy to cringe at that one. Blue eyes manages a small wry smile though, as he steps away, releasing Dean’s shoulder. He turns around and opens the door for Dean and gestures for him to go through. Dean’s expecting Blue Eyes to leave him and wait by the desk or something, but he follows Dean into the room, the heavy door thumping shut behind them.

“Er, thanks. Weren’t you on your way down?” Not that he’s trying to get rid of the strange, ridiculously attractive guy, who he’s now alone with in a deserted library. Because that would be insanity.

Or would insanity be him alone with a stranger in a deserted library late at night, after having received a creepy-ass note and not wanting to high-tail it outta there?

_Eh. Potay-to, Potah-to._

Blue eyes barely nods. “I shouldn’t have been in such a hurry. I didn’t realize that it had gotten so late; got caught up in a book.” He raises said book for Dean to see. It’s a copy of Bukowski’s ‘Pulp’. When Dean looks at him questioningly, the other man lets out a self-deprecating chuckle, “What can I say? I tried to be intellectual with Palahniuk, but –“

“It’s a good book,” Dean interrupts. “One of my favorites. Lullaby is great if a little preachy, but Pulp? Talk about a very good example of bad writing. I love it.”

Blue eyes regards Dean with a calm kind of detachment, but there’s the barest hint of a smile pulling at his lips. “Castiel Novak.”

_C.N._ So not J, Dean’s mysterious letter writer. Of course, he could be lying or have a middle name starting with J. Though, Castiel doesn’t immediately strike Dean as the kind of person who needs to proposition others through sexually suggestive letters, nor pay for it.

It takes Dean a few seconds to realize that he really should respond rather than staring blankly at his new acquaintance, so he quickly reaches out and shakes Castiel’s proffered hand, “Dean Winchester.” It’s a firm, warm grip and Castiel’s hand is smooth. Dean lets go before it becomes too awkward. “I’ve just gotta finish up here and then I can check you out.”

He doesn’t need to be facing Castiel this time to see the smirk threaded through his response, “Of course, Dean. I’ll accompany you if you don’t mind.”

Dean isn’t quite sure whether he minds or not yet, so he says nothing.

From the door, an aisle stretches the length of the room. To the aisle’s right, study carrels line the wall. To the left stand row after row of bookshelves that reach the ceiling. Castiel stays at Dean’s side as he starts walking, but half a pace behind, allowing him to lead the way.

Except for their footsteps and the creaking floorboards, there’s silence, until Dean asks, “Nobody else up here?”

“Just now? I don’t believe so, but I was reading. I tend to block everything out when I’m in a good book,” he gestures towards several books that have been left at one of the carrels, “would you like me to move these?”

“They can wait till morning. Thanks, though.”

They continue on their way down the aisle, Dean checking between the rows of shelves, Castiel keeping an even pace beside him.

As they make their way toward the end of the room, Dean can feel himself growing more and more tense. It isn’t until Castiel asks, “Is everything alright?” that Dean realizes why.

They’re almost at the W’s.

_Wolfe, Thomas. Look Homeward, Angel._

Dean’s spent enough time re-shelving books up here to know the exact location of the Thomas Wolfe novels. In a few seconds they’re going to be walking right past them.

_What about Castiel, though?_

It’s not like Dean can casually explain the creepy note currently burning a hole in his pocket, now is it? Or can he?

Of course, there’s always the option to wait until tomorrow, but patience has never been a Winchester virtue. There’s no way he’d be able to sleep. Not having come so close.

“Maybe I’ll just pick something for myself,” he mutters, sidestepping out of the aisle. He finds himself facing shelf after shelf loaded with hardbound novels. He crouches down. Wolfe is lower still; level with his knees.

“Are you going for Wouk?” Castiel asks.

“Wolfe.”

“As in _The Bonfire of the Vanities_ , or…?”

“Thomas.”

Scanning the shelf, he spots two copies of _Look Homeward, Angel_ , followed by an empty space, after which is a single copy of _The Web and the Rock_ , another open space, then two copies of _You Can’t Go Home Again_.

Dean pulls out a copy of Look Homeward, Angel. Elbows on knees, he opens the book and flips through it. He tries to discreetly make sure that nothing is hidden in the dust jacket, but Castiel obviously notices his not-so-subtle movements and asks, “What are you doing?”

There’s not really a good explanation beyond the truth.

Dean sighs, swivels as gracefully on his haunches as he can, to look up at Castiel. He tries his best to not think about how this position could be put to so much better use. “I got a note this afternoon. Somebody left it on my chair. It’s errr,” Dean struggles to find the right words, “a little weird, maybe? Either way, the note had fifty dollars with it and instructions to ‘look homeward, angel’. I’m just checking these books, ‘cause it’ll bug me if I don’t.”

He waits for Castiel to say something, _anything_. Tell him he’s crazy, tell him that he should go home, take a shower, get a good nights’ sleep.

But Castiel simply says, “Anything in there?”

Dean returns his attention to the book in his hands, angling his body away from Castiel again. “Not this one, no.” He slides it back into its place on the shelf before dragging the second copy forward. As soon as he removes it, he spots a strip of white paper protruding from between the tops of the pages like a bookmark.

“Aha.” Castiel murmurs, sounding pleased.

Dean opens the book. Tucked into its gutter is an envelope. It looks identical to the one left on his chair earlier. Even his handwritten name looks the same.

He plucks it out and shuts the book.

Castiel makes a strangled noise.

“What?”

“Maybe it was there to mark a passage or page number.”

Fuck. Dean hadn’t considered that. Probably not many people would. Unless…

_Unless they have prior knowledge._

Dean suddenly feels a little queasy. He doesn’t turn to face Castiel again. Isn’t sure he can right now. “What makes you say that?”

“In any good mystery, the minor details are often the most pertinent.”

Dean isn’t buying what Castiel is selling. “Was it you?”

There’s a pregnant pause before Castiel replies, “Was what me?"

“The note. Was it you who left the note on my chair this afternoon?”

The answer comes in the form of an unwavering, unequivocal, “No.”

Dean straightens up, the book and envelope still in his grasp. He turns and flashes Castiel what he hopes is a normal rather than panicked smile. “I mean, it’s all right. I’m just curious. It’s not often I get mysterious notes with money in them.”

Castiel looks impatient, “Dean, I assure you I didn’t leave a note on your chair. And whilst I consider myself generous enough, I’m certainly not in the habit of giving away fifty dollars to strangers.”

Dean’s about to concede the point, when Castiel adds, with a wry expression, “Then again, I suppose I could make an exception for you. If you needed it very badly. Maybe.”

If Castiel is his mystery letter sender, then he’s got an odd way of lying.

“Okay,” Dean says slowly, mostly convinced, “Maybe it wasn’t you. I don’t suppose you noticed the page number then?”

Castiel looks genuinely apologetic. “I didn’t, no.”

“Shit.” Dean mutters. “Neither did I. Let’s hope it doesn’t matter.” He returns the book to the shelf before turning his attention to the envelope.

It’s sealed.

“Do you want me to leave?” Castiel asks.

“No, that’s alright.” Dean looks at Castiel. “Are you _sure_ that you don’t have anything to do with this?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Only pretty sure?”

“Almost one hundred percent sure.”

“You mean, like you don’t want to rule out the possibility of temporary insanity or sleepwalking or alternate personalities?”

“Exactly.”

Dean takes a deep breath, “Okay. Well, here goes.” He tears into the envelope, being mindful of the contents. Inside is a folded sheet of lined paper. He removes it, unfolds it.

“Wow,” Castiel mutters. “Looks like you’ve earned a raise.”

Dean slips the hundred-dollar bill aside and reads the handwritten message aloud. At this point, he’s almost glad to have a witness to this weirdness.

“’My dear Dean, Congratulations! You’ve taken your first, minor step on the road to fun and riches. More is waiting. Do you have the will to proceed? I hope so. At midnight, horse around. You’ll be glad you did. Yours, J.’”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to every single one of you wonderful people who are leaving me comments and kudos. Means a lot that I'm not the only one excited about this fic!

The silence that follows is more than a little tense. Dean tucks the message and money back into the envelope. He folds the whole thing and slides it into the same pocket as the first.

“You really don’t have any idea who could be doing this?” Castiel asks, concern edging his tone. “Somebody pulling a prank, perhaps?”

Dean’s nearest – and only – relative is Sam, and he’s all the way in California. Even in the unlikely event that he’s somehow in town without having informed Dean first, their pranking days are pretty much behind them.

_Pretty much_ because Dean still enjoys pulling the odd one here and there. Sam is rather more mature, considering he’s the younger sibling.

However, even in their heyday of Nair in the shampoo (Dean’s especially proud of that one) or the hang glider incident (Sam is a bastard), neither of them would have thought to pull something like this.

Dean shakes his head. “I’m pretty new to town, I can’t see why anyone would want to.” He deliberately omits the fact that he’s yet to make friends. The move itself combined with his hours at the library don’t really give him much spare time for socializing. It’s fine. The point of uprooting his entire life wasn’t necessarily to make new memories, but to get away from old ones.

Castiel exhales on a sigh. “Well, they’re certainly generous.”

Generosity usually implies magnanimity and charity. Dean doubts very much that the sender is pure of heart in that respect. “Let’s go,” He mutters. “We should keep our eyes open, they might be up here.”

He’s aware of how paranoid he sounds, but he’s past the point of caring. Better to be paranoid and alive, than careless and… well, not.

If Castiel thinks anything of it, he rather wisely leaves those thoughts unvoiced. He stays at Dean’s side as they walk the remaining length of the aisle before turning around and heading back, silent but watchful the whole time.

_He’s worried too._

Dean considers it confirmation of his own take on the situation, because anyone who writes these kinds of notes and gives away one hundred and fifty bucks to a complete stranger is not someone you want to meet in a dark alley. Or a dark library.

At least not without a sufficient weapon.

If he – because really, the chances of it being a woman are slim at best – is lurking in the stacks somewhere, he’s succeeding in staying out of sight. And remaining impressively quiet. Despite listening out for any sounds other than the ones he and Castiel are making as they walk the old, noisy floorboards, Dean hears nothing.

Of course, that doesn’t rule out the idea that he’s waiting for Dean downstairs.

_Well, fuck._

As they approach the door leading to the stairs, Castiel moves ahead of him, opens it, and quickly sticks his head out, looking around.

It’s a sweet gesture.

Dean steps over to the panel of light switches, flicking one after another, dropping sections of the room into darkness until there’s no light left, except for the glow from downstairs. He shoots Castiel a grateful smile as he steps through the doorway.

He waits at the top of the stairs, dithering a little.

“Do you want me to go first?” Castiel asks, no hint of mockery in his voice. Only sincerity and kindness.

Dean considers the offer. “If you go first, I’ll have to take up the rear.”

Castiel’s stoic demeanor finally cracks and he chokes out a laugh. Dean tries not to smile, but fails miserably. “Goddammit.” He schools his features into something he hopes hits the mark somewhere near apologetic. “Sorry. I promise I’m not this socially inept all the time. My brain-to-mouth filter just gets a little fucked up when I’m around people I find attractive.”

“You find me attractive then?”

Because _of course_ he’d pick up on that bit.

Castiel’s deadpan expression isn’t giving away much. Dean isn’t sure whether he’s being deliberately obtuse or whether he has no idea just how drop-dead gorgeous he is.

Dean clears his throat and looks away from the intensity of Castiel’s eyes, “As I said. I’m not in the habit of making cringe-worthy innuendos at strangers. Unless I’ve bought them a drink first.”

After a beat, Castiel makes a thoughtful noise, “By my count, you owe me four drinks then. Come on.” He starts down the stairs, gesturing for Dean to follow.

They’re almost at the bottom when Dean says, “I appreciate you sticking around.” It’s as close to admitting vulnerability as he’s willing to allow himself in the moment.

Castiel stops, forcing Dean to a standstill too, and looks at him, _into_ him. “You don’t have to be ashamed for being nervous about this situation. I’d be the same if somebody was sending me anonymous notes. Money or no money, it’s strange.”

“Okay,” Dean says, strangely grateful.

Castiel searches Dean’s eyes for a moment longer, before nodding to himself, apparently satisfied. They continue down, Dean scanning his eyes over the room, lingering on the dark spots, straining to see beyond the shadows.

Nothing appears or moves.

Once they’re at the desk, Castiel raises the novel still in his hand. “Will you still check out the book? I know we’re past closing time but –“

“I’d be happy to for a fellow Bukowski fan.”

He takes up his position behind the circulation desk with Castiel remaining on the other side.

“Thanks again,” Dean says as Castiel hands over his library card.

“My pleasure.” Castiel replies, sounding like he genuinely means it. “What are you going to do about midnight?”

The question – whilst not entirely unexpected – still makes Dean’s heartrate spike and his palms clam up a little. Because, what _is_ he gonna do?

He shakes his head, “I don’t know. I’m not even sure what I’m _supposed_ to do.”

“’Horse around.’”

“Whatever that means.” He slides the book back to Castiel, library card on the top.

Castiel tucks the card into his wallet, then glances at his wristwatch. “It’s nine twenty-seven now. You have plenty of time to brainstorm.” He meets Dean’s eyes. “I’m happy to be of assistance. Do you need to be anywhere right now…?”

_Holy fuck._

He’s asking Dean out, and what’s more, he actually looks a little nervous about it.

“What do you have in mind?”

_Yeah, that’s right. Play hard to get now that you’ve not only acted like a damsel in distress, but also actually admitted that you find him attractive. Stellar flirting there, Winchester. Ten out of ten._

Dean doesn’t miss the mischievous note in Castiel’s voice when he replies, “Well, there’s the matter of the four drinks you owe me.” He waves a dismissive hand, “But that can wait for tonight. Getting drunk would hardly be conducive to our cognitive functions. And we’re going to need all the cognizance we can get. What about a restaurant?”

For once – at least where a hot guy is concerned – Dean lets his upstairs brain do the thinking.

No matter how badly Dean wants to know this guy, it’s painfully obvious just how much he _doesn’t_ know him. The dude is a complete and utter stranger.

‘There are no strangers here; only friends you haven’t met yet.’

_Fuck off, Yeats._

Castiel seems well put together, but that’s just it, isn’t it? The quiet, charming psychopath is a popular stereotype for a reason. Nobody ever falls for the middle-of-the-road Jack-of-all-trades with the quirky hairstyle and love of dogs. Except in crappy rom-coms that have a point to prove. There’s also the little matter that Castiel _could_ be the man behind the notes. Though Dean is pretty confident it’s not him, he has no real way of knowing.

That aside, even if Castiel is completely harmless – at least in the psychopathic murderer sense – he could turn out to be jealous or possessive enough to make Dean’s life miserable, or he could turn out to be a user, who would take what he can from Dean and dump him. All sorts of ways for Dean to get hurt – or worse – by this guy.

Dean didn’t run halfway across the country for a repeat performance.

Then again, he might be just what he seems. A handsome, intelligent human being interested in Dean for his brain as well as his looks.

_Jesus Christ, Dean. It’s just some food, not a marriage proposal._

“How do you feel about Vonnegut?”

Castiel blinks. Once. Twice. “I think that Slaughterhouse-Five is one of the most significant, influential literary works of the twentieth century.”

Sold. To the man in the waistcoat.

 

***

 

At Ed’s, a block from the library, they sit opposite each other at a corner booth and Castiel plucks two menus out from behind the napkin holder. He hands one to Dean. “I hope you don’t mind if I order a full meal. Do the same, if you’d like. It’s on me.”

A waitress comes to the table. She’s young and pretty, and very obviously taken with Castiel if the way she thrusts her scantily covered chest in his direction is any indication. Dean hopes she has a good memory, because she’s not writing down anything that either of them are ordering, instead choosing to invade Castiel’s personal space in an overly suggestive way. She just about stops short of giving him a lap dance, but Dean suspects that’s only because of the lack of room in the booth.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief when she finally leaves in a haze of sugary perfume and swinging hips. Hopefully with their orders.

Castiel, to his credit, has the decency to look more than a little discomfited, “Sorry about that. An unspoken ‘perk’ of the job, I’m afraid.”

“The job?” Dean asks, partially amused, partially horrified, “What are you? A firefighter, stripper?”

Castiel huffs a soft laugh, “Whilst I’m flattered that you think I could do either of those jobs justice, I am neither a firefighter, nor a stripper. I’m a lecturer at the university.”

Really, Dean should have inferred that information from the seductively husked, ‘Will that be all, _Sir_?’

“And you get _that_ all the time?”

Castiel lets out an exasperated sigh, wipes his cutlery on a napkin. “Often enough. Apparently it’s much easier to just sleep your way to the top of the class, because hard work is just that.”

“Who knew, huh? Not sure I can compete with that though.” Dean’s only half-joking as he glances over at the waitress who is not-so-subtly staring in Castiel’s direction as she leans against the counter with her hips tilted outwards, curl of dark hair wrapped around her index finger.

When he looks back at Castiel, the other man’s eyes are dark, full of promise and laser focused on Dean in a way that makes him want to squirm in his seat, “Who says that there’s any competition?”

Dean’s ears and the back of his neck go hot in sudden embarrassment.

_Jesus Christ._

He clears his throat and tries to focus on something, _anything_ else other than the smoldering look Castiel is giving him, like they’re the only two people in the diner. Getting arrested twice in one lifetime for public indecency is not on Dean’s list of things to do.

“Um, so-oo what do you teach?” Back to awkward stammering it is then.

Almost straightaway the intensity evaporates and Castiel cocks his head to one side like a puppy trying make sense of his owner’s baby-babble talk. “What do you think? I’m not being flippant, I’m genuinely curious to know.”

Dean considers the options from what he knows about Castiel. Which, as previously discussed, is next to fuck all. And in all fairness, most of his thoughts concerning the man have been strictly extra-curricular.

He takes a wild stab in the dark. “Something in the humanities. Possibly one of the –ologies?”

“Right area, but not –ologies.”

“English?”

“Literature or language?”

“I’m gonna say literature.”

Castiel looks pleased. “And you’d be correct.”

The waitress returns with their drinks. She must have been listening at least a little, ‘cause they’re right; beer for Dean, Pepsi for Castiel.

“Thank you Marcy.” Castiel says, not looking at her, his attention instead directed solely at Dean. She leaves in a bit more of flounce this time. “You’re quite an improvement over your predecessor, you know.”

Dean’s heard plenty of stories about the old woman that ran the library before he got the job a few months ago. Mostly from Dorothy. And mostly that she died one night during lock-up. Heart attack apparently. “You knew her?”

“Oh, yes. Old Agnes Baxter. An awful thing.”

“Her death?” Dean takes a sip of his drink.

“Her life.”

Dean splutters, choking on a mouthful of beer.

There’s a twinkle of amusement in Castiel’s eyes when he adds, “The earth is a far better place, now that she’s beneath it.”

“Wow,” Dean croaks, throat burning, “Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you, you absolute _bitch_. And here I was thinking that you were such a nice guy.”

Castiel shoots Dean a knowing smile, “Appearances can be deceptive.”

Marcy returns with their food. She hovers at Castiel’s elbow a few seconds too long once the plates are on the table, “Professor Novak, can I just ask you about the paper due in on Friday –“

“No.” Castiel interrupts with a resigned impatience, indicating that this kind of thing really does happen a lot. “Marcy, I’m trying to eat with my companion. You know my office hours. I suggest you hold any questions until then.”

Suitably chastised, Marcy slinks off to the kitchen.

Dean tries not to smirk.

For the next few minutes they eat in companionable silence as Dean forks chili-cheese fries into his mouth and Castiel devours his double cheeseburger. From the expression of pure bliss on his face, Dean guesses that Castiel might have a bit of a long-standing love affair with burgers. Though it’s not like Dean is in any position to judge; his own love for pie is something that has earned him more than his fair share of long-suffering head-shakes from his brother.

The same brother who considers _salads_ human food.

Done, he wipes his mouth with a napkin and takes a swig of his drink whilst he waits for Castiel to finish. It only takes a few minutes until Castiel’s tossing his used napkin onto the empty plate in front of him.

“So,” he says, “have you decided what do you want to do about your mysterious friend?”

“I’m not sure,” Dean admits carefully. “I guess I’m pretty curious about what his angle is.”

“He or she.”

Dean gives him a look. “I’m pretty sure that it’s not a woman.”

Castiel doesn’t argue, just says, “Okay. So a man. A man with money to spare apparently.”

“Yeah, a hundred and fifty bucks already. I mean, on my salary, that’s a lot of money.” Dean hums thoughtfully, “There was fifty in the first and a hundred in the second, right? Which means that he _doubled_ the amount the second time around. What if I find the third envelope, and he’s doubled things again? There might be two hundred in it. Or even three, if he doubles the whole amount instead of just the previous instalment.”

“Or there might be nothing.”

Dean has considered the possibility, and he’s not entirely sure that he wants to hear it spoken aloud; the words, especially coming from Castiel, will give the idea more weight. Even still, he asks, “What do you mean?”

“Maybe there isn’t a third envelope. Maybe you’ll figure out where it’s supposed to be, go there looking for it, and he’s waiting for you.”

Dean swallows hard, throat suddenly feeling like it’s stuffed full of cotton, dry and thick. “If he wanted to jump me, he could’ve done it in the library.”

“I was there. And you left with me.”

“Yeah, but at the time he left the message telling me to “horse around” at midnight, he couldn’t have known that I’d be leaving with you. Which means he never intended to attack me in the library.”

Castiel nods. A different, decidedly older, less flirty waitress arrives to take their plates and asks if there’s anything else. Her nametag reads ‘June’.

“Coffee for me, please.” Castiel says. “Anything for you Dean?”

He decides to forgo pie just this once. If he needs to run at any point tonight, he doesn’t want to be fighting against a huge slice of cherry pie on top of everything else, “Make that two, thanks.”

As June walks away, Dean shivers slightly, even though it’s relatively warm inside the diner. This whole situation is so fucking weird, but it has him just as excited as he is nervous. He glances across at Castiel who is watching him closely with a small crease in his brow.

Just as Dean’s about to ask what Castiel is thinking about, June returns with two mugs of coffee and sets them down on the table.

Castiel raises his mug and blows a soft breath at its top. “So you’re fairly sure that you want to go ahead with this?”

Dean shrugs, not trusting his voice to remain impassive.

“Is that a maybe?”

“More of an ‘I think so’.”

“You haven’t touched your coffee.”

“Sorry,” Dean apologizes, though he isn’t really sure why. He spoons some sugar in and stirs. “Just a bit nervous about the whole thing.”

Castiel takes a sip from his own drink. “I know how to combat that.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Choose not to play the game. Keep the money you’ve gotten so far, and forget about going after more.”

It’s a sensible suggestion. One that a far more sensible person than Dean would probably heed. But trouble always seems to have a way of finding him, no matter how good his hiding place or how fast or far he runs, so he might as well just accept it and roll with it.

At least this time he’s getting paid.

“’Winners never quit and quitters never win.’”

A corner of Castiel’s mouth twitches into a smile. “You think this is a game that you can win?”

“Won’t know if I don’t play, will I?”

“Is it worth the risk?”

Dean rubs a hand over his chin, day end stubble rough under his fingertips. “Sometimes the pot isn’t the money.”

The intensity is back behind the blue of Castiel’s eyes, “No?”

Dean finally lifts his mug of coffee to his lips, takes a sip. “No.”

“You won’t have to go alone,” Castiel says after a moment. “If you want to follow through that is. I’ll help you in any way I can.”

Dean sets down his mug, but doesn’t let go of it. He considers the offer, thinks about what it really means. It means a promise of seeing Castiel again.

And Dean really wants that.

“I’ll cut you in,” Dean says. “Fifty-fifty.”

Castiel pauses, gives Dean the same look that he had on the stairs in the library, like he’s deconstructing him, stripping him down to the working parts, “If you think that I’d be doing this for the money, then I feel you have severely misjudged me.”

Dean can feel his face growing hot, and not just with embarrassment. “I just – I didn’t want you to think that I’m taking your help for granted.”

“I know you’re not, Dean. Could I have a look at the notes?”

Dean’s jacket is folded on the seat cushion next to him. He reaches into the inner pocket where he stashed the notes before they left the library. He passes them across the table to Castiel who thoroughly studies the outsides of the envelopes before pulling out the folded sheets of paper. He removes the two bills, and makes a deliberate gesture of handing them back to Dean. “They’re yours, you should put them in your wallet.”

While Dean pulls out his wallet from the same inner pocket and slips the money into its bill compartment, Castiel unfolds the two notes and holds them side by side. Dean returns the wallet to his jacket pocket. “So, what do you think?”

“Same paper, same handwriting, same mind behind the notes. It seems fairly straightforward. These notes are an invitation to play a game, the money being the key incentive. Beyond curiosity that is, because that can’t always be counted on.”

“It did kill the cat.”

“But satisfaction brought it back. There’s a lot of satisfaction to be gained from one hundred and fifty dollars.”

Dean takes another drink of his coffee. It’s hardly lukewarm now.

Castiel continues, “In the first note, he invites you to play the game with him. The clue is fairly ambiguous, but not at all challenging. He wanted to make things easy for you most likely; make sure that you played along.”

Dean nods, agreeing with Castiel’s interpretation of the note. It’s identical to his own view of it.

“To encourage your participation, he writes: ‘You’ll be glad you did.’ That’s a hint that there’s more money waiting for you up ahead.”

“At least we know he’s a man of his word,” Dean mutters, not entirely sure how happy he is about that fact. Whether it’s a good or bad thing all depends on the nature of the promise.

Castiel makes a noise in the affirmative, “The second note congratulates you: ‘You’ve taken your first, minor step on the road to fun and riches. More is waiting.’”

“So there’s more money ahead.”

“But to get it, you may need to take some _major_ steps.”

“I can quit anytime I want to though.” He tries not to turn it into a question; it’s not like Castiel knows anymore about it than Dean. He’s entirely convinced of that now.

“It certainly looks that way. The thing now is to decipher the clue. ‘At midnight, horse around’.”

“I don’t suppose he means the obvious?”

“The obvious?” Castiel asks.

“You know,” Dean says, trying not to think about his earlier fantasies involving Castiel, “ _horse around_.” At Castiel’s blank expression, Dean coughs, clearing his throat, adds, “screwing around. _Fucking_.”

“Well, we could always try it and see if an envelope turns up.”

Dean is glad that he doesn’t have any beer in his mouth this time, otherwise he’d be choking again. Instead he just gapes like a virgin who’s been given an all-access pass to a whore-house. Everything about this guy has him on the back-foot. He’s not used to it. Usually people are falling over themselves to get to Dean, usually it’s him being propositioned by horny college students, usually it’s him in control. Or at least, he’s with someone who gives him the illusion of it. Castiel isn’t even allowing him that.

“Unfortunately,” Castiel carries on in the face of Dean’s silence, “I believe he’s giving you a location rather than an activity.”

“Someplace where there’s a horse.” Dean interjects dumbly.

“I don’t imagine he’s trying to send you into the countryside to hunt out stables or a farm. This horse is probably here in town.”

“And not necessarily a real horse. Maybe just a place with “horse” in its name, like the White Horse Inn, or –“

Something must click into place in Castiel’s mind, because he interrupts with a sly smile, “I think I might know where he wants you to go.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter totally kicked my arse. 
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments once again, you wonderful people!

After leaving Ed’s, they stroll back to the library parking lot, walking in companionable silence after a good meal, and Dean can almost forget what they’re about to do. There’s a small part of him that just wants to go home, drink a fifth of Jack and crawl into bed, staying safe in the little space that he’s carved out for himself in the world, and not have to deal with anything more exciting than setting his alarm for work in the morning.

The larger part, however, is clearly up for the challenge, despite his nerves. He pulls his jacket tighter around himself, defense against more than just the developing chill in the air. Castiel is back wearing the Ugly Coat after taking it off inside the diner and Dean is – rather ridiculously – beginning to develop a bizarre fondness for the hideous thing.

It’s just so incongruous with the rest of him. The man is so well styled, so painstakingly pieced together, with his impeccable suit and artfully tousled hair. He even wears a wristwatch for fuck’s sake.

_Really, who does that anymore?_

The same person who apparently turns down gorgeous young students who throw themselves at him.

But does he turn them all down though? Just because Marcy isn’t Castiel’s type, doesn’t mean there aren’t others.

Well, fuck. It’s gonna nag at him until he knows for sure now. Not that it matters one way or the other. It’s just – it’d be nice to know. For potential future reference.

Feigning nonchalance, Dean clears his throat and speaks for the first time since they left Ed’s, “So you’ve never been tempted then?”

There’s a split second pause, then Castiel says, “I’ve been tempted by lots of things. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“To _help out_ one of your students?”

“Of course. I help all my students.” Castiel’s offhand manner suggests that he knows exactly what Dean’s alluding to, he’s just being facetious.

“You know what I mean,” Dean says. “Marcy –“

“I don’t fuck my students, no. I suggest we take my car.”

Wrong-footed by the sudden change of subject, Dean stumbles over his words. “Um, okay. Sure.” He follows Castiel towards an old Ford near the end of the lot. He feels jittery about more than just where the note is leading them; something which has been the subject of debate, as Dean hadn’t initially warmed to Castiel’s suggestion that the note could be referring to an art project at KU. However, when faced with literally no other realistic options – the only other horse in town is in front of the Walmart and goes up and down when a kid drops a quarter into its slot – Dean had to concede defeat.

The campus is two miles from Ed’s; a fairly long walk, but a quick drive. There’s no reason for them to go there in separate cars, despite the fact that Dean’s Impala is so much _cooler_. He’s not entirely sure that he can be trusted to drive at the moment though; there’s a fine tremor running through his body, and it has almost nothing to do with the cold.

Castiel unlocks the passenger door, and Dean slides in. While Castiel walks around the front, Dean leans over and unlocks the driver’s door. Castiel pulls it open and climbs in. “You’re definitely sure about this?” He asks, settling in to the fabric seat.

“I think so.”

Castiel laughs quietly. “Right.” He starts the car, flicks on the headlights and begins backing out of the parking space. Dean pulls the seatbelt down across his chest and lap. He pauses, briefly wondering if he’d be safer without it; if he needs to make a quick getaway for whatever reason –

_What happened to trusting Castiel?_

The headlights sweep across the rear of Dean’s parked car, then leave it in darkness. He turns his head. His Impala looks pretty lonely sitting all by itself in the lot.

_Last real chance to back out._

Dean latches the buckle into place at his hip.

 

***

 

Castiel parks on the street in front of the Hall Center, KU’s humanities building. “This is about as close as we can get in the car. We’ll have to walk across campus.”

“Okay,” Dean climbs out, noticing a little white box at one of the corners of the building as he glances around. “Hey, isn’t there security covering the whole area? Maybe we could take a look at the footage to see who left the note?”

Castiel seems to consider this as they begin walking, “Sounds like a good idea, though not every square foot is covered. It’d be impossible to do so. It could be that the art piece is in a blind spot. Maybe deliberately chosen for that very reason.”

“We could always ask around, speak to people to see if they saw anything strange?”

“Strange? You do realize that this is college? Strange is _nothing_ peculiar happening. And where do you start? Are you going to ask the whole student body?”

“Or _you_ could,” Dean says with a teasing smile as a student gives Castiel a friendly wave and a jaunty, ‘Evening, Professor Novak!’, “what with the _affinity_ you have with your students.”

Even in the partial darkness, Dean can tell that Castiel is amused when he replies rather sardonically, “Yes, because it’s me they like and not the idea of good grades.”

Despite Castiel’s suspicion of their motives, they encounter several more students on their way through campus, all of them recognizing Castiel and speaking to him. Some even stop to chat. He’s clearly a popular lecturer.

“It’s you they’re curious about,” Castiel says after the most recent boy, who had made his friends to stop walking so he could speak to his ‘ _absolute favorite teacher_.’ It’s rather endearing really, but Dean will be damned before he admits that out loud. His English Lit teacher in college was a crotchety old man with a bald patch and one very stretched out sweater vest, who hated everything that wasn’t Chaucer or Shakespeare. It clearly didn’t do Dean’s love of literature any harm, but having a teacher like Castiel certainly would have made lessons a lot more interesting.

Though whether he would have actually _learned_ anything is debatable.

“Only insofar as checking me out for weaknesses and possible ways of taking me down.”

“You’ll be alright. Just don’t turn your back on them.”

“Looks like I’ll be sleeping with one eye open from now on then.” Dean’s only half joking. He turns to look over his shoulder. The students who’d stopped and talked are no longer in sight. In fact, there’s _nobody_ in sight; nobody nearby, approaching, or watching from a distance. “I wonder if _he_ ’s here.”

Castiel turns around, eyes narrowing as he scans the walkways and trees and shadows.

“He must be watching,” Dean mutters. “He _must_ be. Otherwise what’s the point?”

“He wasn’t in the stacks.” Castiel reminds him.

“He might’ve been. Y’know? Just because we didn’t find him, doesn’t necessarily mean that he wasn’t there. Maybe he had a good hiding place.”

“It’s not entirely outside the realms of possibility, I suppose.”

“You’re _not_ him, right?”

“No, but then again, if I _was_ the perpetrator, would you really expect me to answer yes? Perhaps give you some ambitious monologue wherein I reveal all my secret plans, before you foil all of them in some utterly impossible way? Because that’s how every supervillain gets tripped up, and quite frankly it’s bullshit. I’d like to think that I’d be smarter, and show more fortitude and patience than that.”

It’s so out of left-field that Dean can’t help himself. He laughs. “Supervillain, eh? Like with a lair and too much spandex and shit? ‘Cause I could totally get on board the evil train if that’s the case.”

There’s a smile in Castiel’s voice when he says, “Come on. We’re almost there.” He leaves the walkway and strides onto the grass, leading Dean towards the side of a low building.

“Why is it all the way out here?”

“There’s no room for the whole collection inside any of the art department’s buildings, and to leave it outside in an easily accessible area would be…ill advised. It all has to be locked up at night. There’s a fenced in area right up ahead where the maintenance crews keep equipment. I suppose the university considered it a strong enough deterrent.”

There’s even less light here and Dean can feel his heart pounding out a steady rhythm against his ribcage. It suddenly seems like an even worse idea than it had back in the diner.

_It’s never been a good idea._

“Dean,” Castiel stops and turns to face him. Not that Dean can see his face; in the darkness, it just looks like a gray smudge. “Are you sure?”

It feels like Castiel is asking about something much more profound than just the notes. Even so, Dean manages to croak out a hoarse, “Yeah.”

“Okay.”

They continue walking, Castiel leading Dean towards an even darker area behind the building, trees dotted about, blocking out what little moonlight there is.

Suddenly, Castiel halts again. Dean steps closer to his side, feeling Castiel’s arm brush against his.

“The light’s off.” Castiel whispers.

“What?”

“There’s supposed to be a spotlight on the gate. For security.”

“Where?”

Castiel points straight ahead. Squinting through the darkness, Dean finds a vague shape that might be a high, chain-link fence beyond the trunks of several trees. He can’t see through the fence. Nor can he see a gate.

“It’s always on at night,” Castiel says, “I don’t keep track of it, but I’ve seen it often enough when I’ve been around campus after dark. You can see it from the quad when you walk past the science building.”

“And tonight it’s out. Suppose it’s too much to ask for it be a coincidence?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“No. Me either. How the fuck are we gonna get in?” Dean asks, approaching the fence. It looks a bit like one of those tennis court fences; draped on the inside with tarps and at least as high as a one-storey building.

“Climbing the thing seems like the most obvious answer.”

“Yeah? And ruin your dapper suit? Pretty sure that thing is worth more than an entire year of my salary.”

Castiel laughs softly, “You raise a good point. Though with all this money you’ll be getting, you could always buy me a new one.”

“Thought you weren’t in this for the money?”

“You’re right. I said nothing about you recompensing me in other ways though.”

Dean’s suddenly thankful for the darkness, even though he’s certain that Castiel can just _tell_ that he’s blushing.

“There might be another way to get in, however. So as not to ruin my _dapper_ _suit_.”

They pass a corner of the enclosure and walk along the front. Here, the moonlight finds its way through breaks in the trees. It illuminates broad, double gates at the center of the fence, and a lane of asphalt that leads away towards the quad. Fixed high on the fence is the spotlight that Castiel had mentioned. A curve of its fixture glows with moonlight, but the bulb is dark.

Dean had hoped that the gates would give him a view inside the fenced area, but now he sees that they, too, are hung with tarps. Castiel steps towards the padlocked chain that is wrapped around the center posts of the gates, binding them together. He crouches slightly and lifts the padlock, before studying the chain.

Dean glances around, checking behind them to make sure no-one is coming, before turning back to Castiel, “This isn’t looking like a much better prospect. I can always go over the fence alone and you can be the lookout.” The idea doesn’t exactly fill him with joy, but just standing around is only adding to his nerves and the longer they’re out here, the more chance there is for them to be caught. Either by faculty, students, or – infinitely more worryingly – the mystery note sender.

Castiel says nothing, just continues his inspection of the chain. He moves his hands together, through the bars of the gate, and the chains part.

“The fuck…?”

“Someone clipped one of the links.”

“Again, too much of a coincidence to actually be one.”

Unwinding the chain, Castiel says, “It could be his way of continuing to make things easy for you.” He lets the chain and padlock fall to the ground. He pulls at the left gate and it swings towards them. “In you go.”

Dean hesitates, “Could we go to jail for this?”

“Isn’t that part of the fun?” In the pale glow of moonlight, Castiel looks almost ethereal. He’s unfairly handsome and Dean is struck with the sudden urge to kiss the attractive bastard.

Instead, he hedges his bets and says, “Perhaps.”

“Anyway, we’ll only go to jail if we get caught. And even if we do, I’m on the faculty. I’d have some explaining to do. Probably.”

Sort-of-but-not-really-convinced, Dean sidesteps through the narrow gap, Castiel following closely behind and pulling the gate shut. The surrounding fences and high limbs of the trees block out most of the moonlight. Dean can only see dim shapes – some black, others in grays of varying darkness. The shape directly in front of him seems to be some kind of bizarre sculpture of an oversized birdbath. Off to the right is something that looks like a pile of junkyard material; a mound of cogs and car tires.

His heart lurches sickeningly in his chest when he spots the figure of a man. It’s a few frenetic beats before Dean realizes that although the man is in a running pose, he’s absolutely still.

_A fucking statue._

“The running man.” Castiel explains in a low voice, breath soft against Dean’s ear, entirely too close, but at the same time not close enough. Dean hadn’t even heard or felt him move; the man is clearly a goddamn ghost.

Dean refrains from making a Schwarzenegger quip. However, he does not show the same restraint when it comes to leaning back ever-so-slightly into the solid warmth of Castiel. It’s comforting in a way that he’s not allowed himself to really think about since he moved here. Working hard and drinking hard – alone in his tiny, but comfortable home – are two things that Dean’s good at, and he’s been doing plenty of both in the last three months.

“Is there any kind of theme to these?” Art has never really been Dean’s forte. He can appreciate a nice painting or a well-done sculpture, but frequently the profound denotations that the artists insist their work conveys are lost on him.

“The project is called ‘Life in Motion,’” Castiel replies. “Do you want to split up and search separately or look together?”

Dean considers the options. On the one hand, searching together is decidedly less creepy and marginally less likely to end with him dead or kidnapped, but splitting up would enable them to cover more ground in less time.

“Splitting up never really works out for Mystery Inc.”

“True, but their smartest member _is_ a Great Dane.”

Dean wants to argue that that’s grossly unfair to poor Velma. He doesn’t. Instead he says, “Okay. Well, I’m thinking it’s probably gonna be better to stick together.” If horror movies have taught Dean anything it’s that a bit of common sense can go a long way.

Of course, _actual_ common sense would be not getting yourself into a situation where getting brutally killed by a maniac with a machete is a possible outcome, but that’s neither here nor there.

Castiel points towards the far left corner, “Let’s go this way first.”

He steps away from Dean and begins heading in that direction.

Dean follows, straining to make out other pieces of art in the darkness as they squeeze their way between fiberglass trees and benches assembled from shoes. Their footfalls are nearly silent in the soft dewy grass, measured breaths quiet.

As they move through the maze of art, there are several times when Dean wants to say something, _anything_ , just to break the thick tension. He keeps quiet though, not daring to invade the silence with his voice when _he_ might be anywhere.

It’s as thrilling as it is nerve wracking.

After what feels like a lifetime of stumbling around in the dark, Castiel suddenly halts, “I believe we’ve found what we’re looking for.”

There, in amongst all of the other pieces is the carousel.

_Horse around._

Dean almost laughs with the ridiculousness of it.

It’s not a big carousel; maybe about a third of the size of a standard one found on boardwalks and fairgrounds across America. The platform is tilted like it’s been deliberately designed not to work and not all of the horses are facing in the same direction. Dean figures that it’s supposed to be a statement on how some people move through life differently? A rather literal interpretation of going against the grain, perhaps? It’s ornate, and as they move closer together Dean can just about make out details in the paint job that make it look like the real thing.

It’s fucking beautiful, even in the barely-there light. Right there and then, Dean makes a promise to himself that he’s going to come and view all these pieces in the daylight. See them how they were intended to be seen, even if he doesn’t necessarily _get_ all of them.

“A student did this? Seriously?” He can’t help the skepticism that bleeds in around the edges.

“It’s her final year piece. She’s exceptionally talented. I’ve walked past it a few times during the day when it’s out in the quad and it’s never failed to make me stop and look, even if momentarily.”

Dean walks around it, being careful not to trample on the projects nearby. Two out of the six horses mounted on the patterned platform are backwards and painted in different colors to the others. He smoothes his hand over the dip of the nearest horses back, pats the sharp points of its ears.

Castiel stands off to the side, apparently satisfied with simply watching Dean as he inspects the carousel. Dean feels almost _grateful_ that he’s been forced out of his little happy bubble by the mystery note writer. First of all, he’d led Dean to a classic novel like _Look Homeward, Angel_ and now he’s showing him this awesome work of art, which he would have easily missed out on.

_Might’ve missed out on getting to know Castiel too._

Although they still would have bumped into each other on the stairs, there would have been absolutely no reason (or convenient excuse in the form of decoding the second note) for Castiel to have stuck around once Dean checked out his book.

That alone makes all of this worth it.

However unexpectedly whimsical and lovely Dean is now finding the entire situation, it isn’t helping with the whole find-the-note-thing, so he starts actually looking for it, as opposed to just going through the motions whilst he waxes poetic.

It doesn’t take long.

There’s a white rectangle tacked to the main pillar, the cellophane tape gleaming silver in the moonlight. Dean rips it free. He turns it over in his hands. Even in the poor light, he can see the distinct four letters of his name printed in the same neat writing on the front.

“Got it.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to those commenting. You're truly awesome and it really does make a difference.
> 
> Also, this chapter is quite a bit longer than the others. Hope you all enjoy it though!

Meandering their way back to the gates of the fenced enclosure seems a whole lot quicker than their route inwards had done. Castiel eases open one of the gates slightly and sticks his head out. “It’s clear,” he tells Dean, then opens it wide. Dean exits and waits restlessly behind Castiel, who wraps the chain around the gate posts and hooks it together. “I’d much prefer it if I could secure the area properly, but I suppose this will have to do.”

“It’ll probably get fixed tomorrow,” Dean points out, more than ready to just _leave _already.__

“You’re right. Let’s go.”

They make their way through the darkness, rounding the corner of the science building and walking briskly towards the lights of the quad. It’s not long at all before they’re approaching the humanities building again, and Dean has never been so happy to see a crappy Ford in his entire life. He practically throws himself into the passenger seat, yanking the door shut so hard that the little car rocks. Castiel follows suit, sliding in the driver’s side.

For a long moment, they both just sit silently in the car, breathing heavily, neither of them deigning to speak. There are so many things that could have gone wrong, so many ways that either of them could have been hurt and all for what? A couple hundred bucks?

_A little late for practical thinking now._

Dean digs the envelope out of his pocket, tearing off the strips of tape and ripping open the flap. Castiel reaches to the dashboard and the car’s courtesy light comes on.

“Thanks,” Dean says, removing the note. It’s folded into thirds, just like the others. Inside, he finds a fresh pair of hundred-dollar bills. He shows them to Castiel.

“So, once again he came through.”

Dean makes a vague noise of assent.

“And he doubled it, so he’s sticking to the pattern.” Castiel adds.

“Right. The next should be four hundred bucks.” He sets the money down on his lap and raises the handwritten note. “’My dearest Dean,” he reads aloud, “The game goes on. Troll for your next treasure on the south tomorrow night, midnight. You’ll be glad you did. Yours, J.’”

“Tomorrow night. At least he’s considerate of your work schedule.” Castiel says dryly.

“Yeah. That’s a relief,” Dean sighs contentedly, settling back into the seat properly. “I’ve about had enough for tonight.”

Castiel turns the key in the ignition. Dean folds the note and tucks it back inside the envelope, then picks up the money. “You want one of these?” He doesn’t feel right about taking the whole lot, not when Castiel is pretty much the entire reason that he found any of it. There’s no way that he would have known to go there without Castiel.

“I don’t want any, really.”

 “Are you sure?” Dean asks, dropping his voice low, mimicking Castiel’s serious tone from earlier. Castiel takes his eyes off the road momentarily to arch an unamused eyebrow at Dean.

“Put it towards the drinks you owe me.”

“Okay,” Dean slips the bills into the envelope, before sliding the whole thing back into his jacket pocket. He’s not going to argue the point, despite every fiber in his being telling him to do so. He’s been brought up to value money, but only in respect to the amount of work that’s put in to achieve it. Despite knowing that it’s kind of danger money for taking the risk, it still doesn’t sit quite right with him.

_Danger money. Get a fucking hold of yourself, Winchester._

“Are you planning to go on with this?” Castiel asks.

“I guess so. I don’t see why not.” He pauses for a second before asking, “I don’t suppose you’d want to come with me tomorrow?” He phrases it like a question so as to give Castiel an out. There’s a chance that despite his relative calm and stoicism Castiel is quietly wondering what the fuck he’s gotten himself involved in with Dean.

Without missing a beat, he replies, “Of course. Do you want me to meet you at the library?”

Dean considers this for a moment before shaking his head, “I should probably go home and change first. Who knows what we might be walking into? Best not to do it in my nicer clothes.”

Soon, Castiel slows his car and swings into the library’s parking lot. Ignoring the lines on the asphalt, he steers directly towards Dean’s Impala.

“Do you want me to follow you home in your car?” Castiel asks, stopping the car alongside Dean’s and cutting the engine. He turns in his seat to face Dean. “I’m merely thinking in practical terms. It’ll save me from having to hunt for your place tomorrow night. It’ll also give me peace of mind to know that you got home safely tonight.”

Desire curls in Dean’s stomach. He’s pretty sure that if Castiel comes home with him tonight, he won’t be leaving until the morning. And whilst earlier in the library, before Dean knew him, that seemed like a fucking stupendous idea, now not so much. It’s definitely not because he doesn’t want him – that’s so far from the problem that it’s laughable – it’s more that he actually _likes_ Castiel.

The last person that he _liked_ is the very reason he’s in Lawrence in the first place.

Castiel isn’t him though. Castiel is _nothing_ like him.

“If you don’t mind,” Dean manages a wan smile.

“I’ll be right behind you.”

“Bringing up the rear?”

Castiel’s answering grin obliterates any remaining doubts that Dean may have been harboring. “Exactly.”

 

***

 

Castiel stays a safe distance behind Dean as he drives from the library to his house on the outskirts of town. He pulls into his driveway, and Castiel stops at the curb. It comes as no surprise when the Ford’s headlights go dark, but it still makes Dean’s pulse kick up and his breath catch in the back of his throat.

Castiel strides up the driveway while Dean climbs out of his car, shutting and locking his door. He turns to face Castiel, throat dry and palms clammy. He's not entirely sure why he's so nervous; sure, he's not always  _quite_  as smooth as he likes to think he is, but this is bordering on girl-on-her-first-date silliness.

“I realized that we hadn’t discussed a time for me to get here tomorrow night.” Castiel explains with soft eyes and a half-smile.

_Oh._

“I’m not sure,” Dean admits. “I mean, I don’t even know where exactly we’re supposed to go.”

“Maybe we should take a closer look at the note, see if we can work it out.”

This isn’t quite the romantic rendezvous Dean had been expecting. However, he’ll gladly accept Castiel’s company in any capacity, so he reaches into his pocket and pulls out an envelope. He notices that it doesn’t have any tape, puts it back and comes up with the one from the carousel. He hands it to Castiel, who removes the note, leaving the money untouched.

“We’ll need some light on the subject,” he says, leading Dean towards the porch. Standing under the dim light there, he unfolds the note and reads it, blue eyes scanning over the writing carefully. “That’s what I thought.”

“What?”

He shakes his head, fondly exasperated, “I’m here to _help_ , not to do all the thinking for you.” He hands the note back to Dean. “Read it again and tell me what _you_ think.”

Dean glances over the note again, but he doesn’t really read it. Instead he’s too busy trying to figure out whether he should ask Castiel inside and how best to do it. Figuring that the direct approach is probably the best, he says, “I could really do with a drink, would you like one?”

Castiel’s expression smoothes out, “Alright. Thank you Dean.”

He unlocks his door and Castiel follows him into the living room. He turns on a nearby lamp and tosses his keys into a bowl on the sideboard, before dropping the note onto the coffee table in front of the couch on his way past. “What do you want? I’ve got beer, water, whisky?” He doesn’t mention the milk; he’s pretty sure it’s at least a week out of date and possibly sprouting new life forms.

“Whatever you’re having is fine.”

Dean’s tempted by the whisky, but… “Beer okay?”

“Beer’s great.”

Castiel follows him into the kitchen. There, Dean removes two cans of beer from the refrigerator, nudging the door shut with his hip, before setting them down on the counter and popping their tabs.

“Maybe we should take a look around the house,” Castiel says taking the proffered can from Dean. “Just to be on the safe side. Thank you Dean.”

It’s not like Dean hadn’t considered the idea that the mysterious ‘J’ might have possibly used the time that he was away from the house to break in, but to hear that Castiel has had a similar thought it more than a little disconcerting. It means that there’s merit to it.

Dean doesn’t question it or argue, simply says, “Yeah, okay.”

“Why don’t you give me a tour?”

They take their beers with them and start to wander through the house. Straightaway, Dean’s internally freaking out – not so much about a possible intruder – but because the place is a shit-tip and he’s pretty sure that there’s at least one pair of dirty boxers stuffed down the back of the couch.

He probably should have thought it through before he invited Castiel in. At least beyond the potential for sex.

Foresight is not really one of Dean’s strengths.

“Sorry about the mess.” He can’t actually remember the last time he vacuumed. Has he even vacuumed since he moved in?

“It really isn’t that bad.” Castiel soothes and Dean isn’t sure if he’s just being polite or whether he’s secretly wondering how he can escape when there’s a weeks' worth of laundry blocking his path. Either way, he doesn’t outwardly look disgusted, but Castiel’s default deadpan expression doesn’t give much away.

Still, Dean feels a little embarrassed that Castiel is getting this opportunity to see so much of him and whilst there’s only the odd picture of Sam here and there, Dean feels that the _absence_ of any mementos is more telling than if his walls and surfaces were lined with them.

The search yields no weirdos hanging out in Dean’s house, so they return to the living room.

“It was a longshot,” Castiel says with a half-shrug. “Glad he isn’t here there though.”

_Understatement._

“Yeah.” Dean sinks down into the couch with a deep, bone-weary sigh. He feels the cushions move and dip when Castiel sits down too – nearly a foot away.

Close, but not too close.

Leaning forwards, Castiel reaches to the coffee table and picks up the note. “Have you had any thoughts about this?” He passes it to Dean.

Dean scrubs a hand over his eyes and sits up properly so that he can focus. “Okay. So it’s tomorrow – or technically tonight, since this is already tomorrow – and I’m supposed to ‘troll’ for my next treasure… _On_ the south, not _in_ the south. How likely is that to be an error?”

“Not very,” Castiel says, drinking from his can.

“By ‘troll’ I’m thinking that he doesn’t mean fishing. He’s probably referring to the fairy-tale monster, y’know like in the Three Billy Goats Gruff. The kind of troll that hangs out under bridges. So the next envelope is under a bridge somewhere? That’s pretty fuckin’ vague.”

Castiel looks thoughtful. “Maybe, maybe not. I think that the ‘on the south’ part is an allusion to where you’re supposed to go.”

“Yeah?” Dean racks his brain, trying to think of any bridges in or around Lawrence that have the name south in them. He comes up blank. “Sorry man, not getting the reference.”

“There are two bridges in Kansas that cross the river. The 40 and 59. Between them is an embankment known as the south bank.”

Dean’s impressed. Though, it probably helps that Castiel actually goes out beyond work and home. Dean’s done no exploring whatsoever until tonight. “That simple, eh?”

“That simple. At least for now. Are you still wanting me to pick you up from here? What time?”

Dean usually arrives home from the library by nine-thirty. If Castiel comes over then, they’ll have at least two hours before it’s time to leave. Could be time for dinner again maybe, or would that be pushing his luck?

“You could come by around ten? Get some pizza, have a couple of beers?”

“Sounds good,” Castiel tips his head way back and drains his can, before leaning forward and setting it on the table. He rises from the couch, “I’d better go.”

“Oh…okay.” Dean stands up too, trying to ignore the cloying feeling of disappointment, and trails behind Castiel to the front door. As Castiel opens it, he turns to face Dean, reaching into his inside pocket for something. He pulls out his wallet, opens it and plucks out a business card.

“Here. This has my home number and my cell on it. Just in case you need anything.”

Dean takes the proffered card and in return manages a membrane-thin smile. “Thanks man. I appreciate it.” He glances at it, flicking it over.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Dean.”

Dean swallows around the lump in his throat as he tucks the card into his pocket. Why is this suddenly so hard?

He wants to ask Castiel to stay. Wants to beg him if that’s what it takes, but he doesn’t.

“You too, Castiel. Thanks for… y’know, everything.”

“Of course,” Castiel replies, easy and genuine, like it's an every day occurrence to help librarians with their cryptic notes from potential perverts. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He starts to turn away, making to leave and Dean figures that it’s now or never. He catches Castiel’s arm and before he can think better of it, he curves his left hand behind Castiel’s neck, bringing his face closer, blue eyes meeting green. Castiel’s hold a question in them for a moment before flooding with the same molten heat that Dean was subjected to in the diner. Dean maintains the eye contact a split second longer, making sure he’s reading the situation right, before pressing his lips to Castiel’s.

Castiel responds almost instantaneously, hauling Dean in closer, hips flush, bodies fitting together, squeezing out every inch of space between them until there’s nothing left but fabric and warm skin. The kiss quickly loses its relative innocence; devolving into something resembling desperation as Castiel forcefully backs Dean against the sideboard, fists clenched in Dean’s shirt, tongue relentlessly chasing Dean’s. It’s greedy, demanding, and inelegant, lips dragging wetly between teasing scrapes of teeth and presses of tongue that steal away Dean’s surprised moans.

Castiel kisses like it’s everything to him, like _Dean_ is everything to him, mouth surging against Dean’s, hands grasping and clutching. It’s nothing like Dean had imagined – and he’s lost count of how many times he’s thought about this – Castiel is all passion and no restraint, pure instinct and lust.

With a tortured sounding groan, Castiel wrenches himself away, stepping back, physically putting distance between them, like if he gets close again, he’s not going to be able to control himself. For the second time in six hours, he blurts out, “Shit, sorry.”

“What for?” Dean’s cheeks are hot, desire simmering in his veins as he struggles to steady his breathing. His head is spinning with the zero to sixty of it all - and possibly a lack of oxygen - but he can't imagine a single reason why Castiel would feel the need to apologize.

“You’re right.” Castiel says after a beat, uncertain but playful as he runs a hand through his hair, strands sticking up between his fingers. It’s as close to a lack of composure as Dean’s seen in him all night. “What the fuck am I apologizing for? I’ve been wanting to do that since the first time I saw you.”

Dean laughs breathlessly, slightly giddy with the knowledge. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yes. See you tomorrow, Dean.” He stares at Dean for a few seconds longer, unmoving, clearly not wanting to go any more than Dean wants him to. “I really should go.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. Except for the part where he really doesn’t.

“Right. I’m going. Seriously. You need to sleep and so do I.” Dean’s not really sure who Castiel is trying to convince. Either way, he’s not doing a good job. He presses a quick kiss to Dean’s forehead and then he’s gone before Dean can really react. He stands in the doorway, watching Castiel stride quickly out to the street, enter his car and drive away.

_Wow._

Dean shuts and locks the front door, sliding the chain across. He leans back against it and takes in a few steady, calming breaths. The house seems very silent, now that Castiel is gone. Silent and empty.

_Is this what it’s been like since I moved here?_

He’s accustomed to being alone – of course he is – but he feels more vulnerable and lonely than usual. The house doesn’t seem quite the safe haven that it had when he left for work this morning.

 _Should’ve fucking asked_ _him to stay._

After that kiss, Dean is certain that Castiel would have said yes.

Heaving a sigh, he pushes himself away from the door and wanders over to the couch. It would be so easy to just pass out down here, but he’s in desperate need of a shower and the couch is pretty lumpy; he’d never get a decent night’s sleep.

He takes the two beer cans to the kitchen, draining his on the way. He gives both cans a quick rinse in the sink, then tosses them into the recycling bin beside his oven. When Sammy does finally visit, he’ll be so proud.

Before leaving the kitchen, he double-checks the back door. It’s almost never unlocked and neither he nor Castiel have been near it tonight, but again, never hurts to be sure. The lock button is horizontal, but Dean still tries the knob anyway. It rattles, but refuses to turn. He gives the door a small shove with his shoulder, but it doesn’t budge.

Satisfied, he leaves the kitchen, flicking off the lights. He dithers in the living room, torn between leaving the lamps on and switching them off. Usually, he switches everything off, but tonight he doesn’t want the living room dark whilst he showers.

It’s ridiculous, he knows it is. But fuck it. If it makes him feel safer then he’s gonna do it.

With his back to the lights, he walks up the stairs, past the bathroom. He stops at his bedroom, reaches around the doorframe and gropes for the light switch. After the lights come on, he steps into the room and glances around, checking for any obvious signs that someone might be in here, y’know like a bulge behind the curtains or a boot under the bed.

There’s no-one here.

He plugs his cell phone in to charge and deposits Castiel’s card next to it, before stripping out of his work clothes, tossing them into/near the overflowing laundry hamper. The gray bathrobe that Sam had gotten him last Christmas – ‘ _Dean you’re almost thirty, you can’t go around wearing towels around your hips like something out of a porno forever’_ – is hanging on a hook in the closet and he snags it down.

He can count on one hand the number of times he’s worn it, but tonight he feels like he needs the comfort.

He really should call Sam.

Leaving the light on in the bedroom, he makes his way back down the hall to the bathroom. He flicks on the light and enters, shutting the door and hanging the robe on its hook.

He steps over to the bathtub and turns the water for the shower on via the thermostat mounted on the wall. He waits a couple of seconds then touches the water, checking the temperature, before adjusting the flow of cold to ease the burning heat. He steps into the tub, rolling the glass door shut behind himself.

Eyelids fluttering shut, he turns into the hot spray. It hits him full in the face, fills his mouth, spills down his chin. It’s soothing, makes him feel drowsy. He bows his head, letting the spray soak and mat his hair, heating his scalp.

He turns around, so that the water is hitting the back of his head and neck, streaming down his back, over the swell of his ass, and down his legs. He stands motionless for a while, just savoring the feel of it, letting the warmth soak into his bones.

_Can’t stay in here forever._

He begins to soap himself, citrusy scent mingling with the steam as he thinks of his kiss with Castiel. Wondering how differently tonight could have gone if he’d just nutted up and asked him to stay. How easy it would have been.

If it was that easy, Dean would have done it.

Nothing in his life is ever that easy.

He remembers how solid and muscular Castiel had felt against him, how damn good he had smelled, how much Dean wanted to push, to _feel_ more.

It’s been so long since he’s had another person’s hands on him. So long since he’s let another person close to him. And not just in the physical sense, but right now that’s all he can think about.

_Castiel._

Castiel with his Ugly Coat and sex hair. The sharpness behind his blue eyes.

Dean imagines how it would feel if Castiel was in there with him, pressing himself up against Dean’s back like he had earlier at the university, but this time, skin on skin, water sluicing over both of them. Castiel’s voice would be a low rumble against Dean’s pulse, murmuring words of praise into his skin, burying the words deep.

In his fantasy, Dean tips his head back against Castiel’s shoulder, hand winding its way through Castiel’s thick hair, tugging, tilting his head so Dean can kiss him, sloppy and wet. Castiel splays a possessive hand over Dean’s stomach, holding him close, the other skating down his side in a barely-there touch that makes Dean squirm and his muscles quiver. He can almost feel the hard length of Castiel’s cock pressing against his ass and he wants.

 _Fuck_ he wants.

Castiel reminds him of things he’s _not allowed_ to want anymore. Things that he’d buried deep when he ran.

“Fuck.” Dean slips a hand around his hard cock, the sudden surge of lust through his veins making him gasp. Looking down, Dean watches his own hand glide along his length, stroking in a steady rhythm, imagining Castiel’s smooth, elegant fingers in place of his own.

The shower beats a warm, even tempo against his back, sounds of his heavy breathing bouncing off the tiles, as he continues stroking himself from base to tip, flushed cockhead nearly disappearing in his fist on every upstroke. In his head, he’s a writhing needy mess in Castiel’s arms, strong, tight hand on his cock driving Dean wild, sweet long pulls alternating with fast flawless strokes.

Fucking into the curve of his slick palm, he imagines Castiel pressing in closer, dick riding the crease of his ass, tongue sweeping over Dean's damp skin, kiss-swollen lips worshipping Dean, calling him a ‘good boy’ and meaning it.

It’s so _so_ close to perfection, would be actual perfection if Castiel was here and Dean can’t help the shaky moan he lets out as his entire body tenses, poised on a precipice he knows that there’s no coming back from.

‘ _Come for me, Dean.’_

Two more quick strokes and Dean’s there, free-falling over the edge, trembling with the effort as he comes, water hammering down on his shoulders, steam enveloping him in a thick, hazy blanket.

“Fuck.”

Dean leans his head against the glass, pressing it with his brow and the tip of his nose, coming down from the endorphin rush, eyes closed, breathing slowing. He rolls his head slowly from side to side, enjoying the rub of the cool glass against his feverish skin.

He could make it all a reality with one phone call. He _could._

He won’t though.

Bone tired from the events of the night, Dean straightens up, feeling a little steadier on his feet now that he’s no longer trembling with his orgasm. He’s almost tempted to phone in sick tomorrow so he can catch up on some much needed sleep before his next task, but that’s a slippery slope. He enjoys his job, doesn’t want to lose it.

He opens his eyes, level with an oval of glass that has been wiped clear of fog by his forehead. His heart stutters in his chest.

The door to the hallway stands open.

_What the fuck._

Dean is certain that he had shut it, had heard the click of the latch. So a gust of wind hasn’t shoved it open. Nor has a settling of the house. Nothing short of a natural disaster could have possibly opened that door.

Nothing except a hand.

_Someone’s in the house._

Forcing himself to look away from the door, Dean sweeps his gaze over the entire bathroom.

_Nobody._

He fixes his eyes on the door again, watching for any signs of movement out in the hallway. Anything to indicate someone lurking.

_Nothing._

He tries to tell himself that it might be Castiel. Might be. Just like in his fantasy. Though, realistically, Dean knows that Castiel wouldn’t sneak back and break into his house with a surprise appearance. He’s sure of it.

His mind races, trying to figure out the best plan of attack. He’s got an M1911 in the nightstand drawer, but that involves leaving the safety of the shower. At least here he’s in an enclosed room with a wall at his back.

Though, if the intruder suddenly decides to show his face, Dean is pretty defenseless. He’d end up like some horror movie cliché; nailed in the shower – just not in the way that he’d been hoping for.

_Well, fuck._

Slowly, he rolls the shower door aside. Though it makes a soft rumble, he doubts that it can be heard much beyond the bathroom door. Not over the rush of water coming from the shower anyway. Steadying himself with one hand on the wall, Dean steps over the edge of the tub. He stands on the bathmat, panting for breath, trembling and dripping, some beads of water clinging to his skin, others trickling down his naked body.

The bathrobe is still hanging from the hook on the door, the door itself half-open, showing a small section of the hallway beyond it.

He can’t see anybody out there.

Doesn’t mean jack shit though.

Whoever it is could be lying in wait to jump him. Or they could burst in here any second.

Even as he considers his options, Dean begins sidestepping towards the sink. Two steps and the soft bathmat under his feet is replaced by cool tiles. He blinks away the droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes, never looking away from the door.

The sharp corner of the counter digs into the firm flesh of his ass and Dean reaches back with a hand, fumbling for and finding the front of the sink. He spins around, glimpsing a wild, wet version of himself in the medicine cabinet mirror. His foggy portrait darts sideways and vanishes as the mirror’s hinges squawk.

Most of what he sees on the narrow shelves is of no use at all; too many pills, cardboard packages, bottles and jars made of lightweight plastic.

But the bottle of cough syrup is made of glass. He grabs it, resists the insane urge to smash it against the sink like in some dumb movie where the bad guy breaks a bottle against the bar, turning it into a series of spikes. Experience has taught him that he’s more likely to end up with a bloody hand full of glass shards than any form of usable weapon.

He creeps slowly towards the open door, mindful of his breathing, despite his heart thumping almost painfully behind his breastbone. Reaching the door he hunches low and rams it with his shoulder, hoping to surprise anyone who might be hiding. It flies wide, pounding into the wall behind it, no doubt digging out a chunk of plaster.

He lurches into the hallway, skidding on the carpet, ready to hurl the bottle at his assailant.

No one is there.

He stands motionless, holding his breath and listening. He hears nothing but the pounding of his heart and the hiss of the shower.

A quiet voice that sounds remarkably familiar slithers in, tells him that he can’t have latched the door. That Dean’s imagining shit again.

But he’s so _sure_.

He finally lets out the breath he’s been holding as he considers what to do next. Get out of the house? Go looking for the intruder? Call the police? Call Castiel and ask him to come over?

_There might not be anyone here._

But then again, there might be.

_Get the gun, do a full sweep of the house._

It’s the only way he’s going to sleep tonight.

“Fuck it,” He mutters, crouching to set down his makeshift weapon and pick up the robe that has fallen to the floor. If he’s doing this, then he’s doing it clothed. He straightens back up, sweeping the garment around his back and slips his arms into its sleeves. Holding it closed with his left hand, he blindly reaches for the cloth belt dangling from its loop by his hip. He isn’t watching his right hand.

But he looks at it fast when the tip of his index finger brushes against a small corner that feels like paper.

A white envelope stands on end, a fraction of an inch protruding out of the pocket of his robe.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, once again I'm totally blown away by the amount of awesome responses the last chapter got, so thank you guys! 
> 
> This chapter is more of a normal length and less creepy, I promise! 
> 
> Oh, and sorry it's a day late! Next chapter should be on time :)
> 
> Also. For those who are concerned, I totally do have a plan for this story (twenty chapters of plans to be precise) so I promise the tags will be coming to fruition soon enough!

The next evening, Castiel arrives a few minutes early.

Dean’s in the kitchen, cramming his dirty clothes into the washing machine when he hears the doorbell. If Castiel coming over is going to be a regular thing – and he sincerely hopes that it is – then he really needs to start keeping some semblance of order around the place. He might even get around to vacuuming.

_Yeahuh. Of course. And then maybe some knitting?_

He quickly pours some detergent into the little plastic cup, purple liquid drooling down the side, and shoves it carelessly into the drum on top of the clothes, bangs the door closed and presses the on button. He has no idea what setting it’s on, can't be bothered with wasting the two seconds it would take to check, but he trusts that he wouldn’t have left it on an eighty degree wash or something.

When he opens the door, Castiel is smiling genially at him and is dressed in more casual attire; snug, worn dark jeans and a black button down with the long sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks good. Unfairly so.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey Castiel.”

“Are you ready for another big adventure?”

Nodding mutely, Dean steps backwards, allowing Castiel inside, then closes the door and gestures for him to follow him into the living room. “Actually,” he concedes, “more like yes and no.”

“Having second thoughts?”

“Hundred-and-second.” Which isn’t necessarily an exaggeration. It would be fair to say that throughout his day at work, Dean had been ever-so-slightly preoccupied, so much so that he hadn’t even noticed when a couple tried going at it between the stacks in the children’s section.

Whatever, kids have to learn about the birds and the bees sometime.

“But I see that you dressed for it.”

“Yeah.” To blend in with the night, Dean is wearing black jeans and a dark long-sleeved Henley. Though he feels more like he’s about to rob a bank than go on what is essentially an errand. Well, he hopes that’s what it’s going to amount to. “You want something to drink now? Or wait until the pizza arrives?”

“I’ll have a beer now, please.”

Dean nods and goes to the kitchen to retrieve a couple of chilled bottles from the refrigerator. He’d picked up a six pack on the way home, ‘cause the cans last night had tasted like ass. Actually, in all fairness, they had tasted distinctly _worse_ than ass. He can’t even remember why he’d bought them in the first place; possibly to water down the whisky, who knows.

By the time he gets back to the living room, holding the two opened beers by their necks between the fingers of one hand and a pizza menu in the other, Castiel is no longer standing next to the couch where Dean had left him. Instead, he’s over by the window, Sam’s graduation picture in his hand.

Dean passes one of the beers to Castiel and says, “What toppings do you want?”

“Thank you. Not anchovies.” He puts the frame down.

“Obviously. Only sociopaths have anchovies on their pizza. Pepperoni it is then?”

While Dean orders, Castiel sets about looking over Dean’s DVD collection, pausing every so often to slide one off the shelf, study the cover, read the exposition on the back before replacing it. Dean’s just finishing his phone call when he notices that Castiel is studying his copy of The Abominable Dr. Phibes with a mixture of confusion and amusement.

“A classic.” Dean tells him, completely serious, taking a swig of his beer.

“A great romantic story.”

Dean almost chokes. He really should stop drinking around Castiel. “What?” There are a lot of words he could use describe The Abominable Dr. Phibes. ‘Romantic’ wouldn’t even be in the top fifty.

“Think about it. Of course it is. The whole reason he’s committing the murders in the first place is to avenge the death of his one true love. He unleashes Old Testament atrocities on those responsible. It’s rather poetic.”

“And seriously misguided.”

“That’s subjective. To him, it’s the right thing to do.”

“So you’re telling me that Dr. Phibes impaling someone on a bronze unicorn is – in his mind – the right thing to do for true love?”

“Yes.”

“And not in the slightest bit obsessive or creepy, or Hell, even downright unnecessary?”

“Unnecessary perhaps, and rather elaborate. But if someone you love was hurt or killed by another, wouldn’t you want vengeance?”

It’s an interesting point and one that Dean hasn’t really considered up until now. At least not in the context of Vincent Price movies. He thinks about all the things he’s done and would do for Sam. Remembers Gordon Walker, how Dean hadn’t hesitated to step in. “If someone ever hurt my brother, it’d be the last thing they ever did.”

Castiel smiles, pleased, his point proven. “Exactly.”

Dean will have to get Castiel’s opinion on Theatre Of Blood later  - should be good for a laugh – but for right now, he needs to explain why he’s going to have to go it alone tonight.

“Uhm Castiel, there’s something I should probably mention to you.” Which might be an understatement of epic proportions, and Dean knows that it’s something he should have lead with rather than waiting until after pizza was ordered, but if Dean’s being honest with himself – which does happen from time to time – he’s a little unsure how Castiel is going to react to the news. While Castiel seems relatively calm on the outside, Dean gets the distinct impression that a pissed off Castiel could be someone you don’t really want to be on the wrong side of. Not even in a violent way. Just in that 'could take you apart with one carefully constructed barb' kinda way.

Though, Dean's more concerned about disappointing Castiel than anything else. He's not entirely sure what that says about him.

He crosses over to the couch, sits down and pats the cushion at his side in what he hopes is a playful manner. Castiel takes the offer, but he scoots farther away, turns sideways until one of his knees almost touches Dean’s leg and rests his elbow on the back of the sofa. He cocks his head to one side, scrutinizing Dean with the same intensity that is pretty much expected by now. “What is it?” He asks. “Something isn’t…?”

Dean takes a deep breath and rushes out on the exhale, “So, we’ve got a little problem.”

“A problem?” Castiel arches an eyebrow. “What sort of problem?”

Dean leans towards the coffee table and picks up the envelope. He shows it to Castiel, but doesn’t pull the note out yet. “This came ‘special delivery’ last night. Apparently hand-delivered to the pocket of my bathrobe.”

An untraceable emotion flits across Castiel’s face, before he settles on concern. “Your robe? Where was it?”

“On the bathroom door. I hung it there when I took my shower last night, just after you left.” Dean can feel his face growing hot with embarrassment at the memories involved with said shower, but he continues regardless. “He must’ve opened the door and slipped the envelope into my pocket while I was in there.”

“Fuck.” Castiel mutters.

“Yeah,” Dean laughs humorlessly. “Freaked me out.”

“Of course. He was in your house.”

Yeah, he was. Likely caught himself a good part of Dean’s ‘show’ too. Though, that’s a detail that Castiel doesn’t really need to know. “Yeah. But the doors and all the windows were locked. After I found the note, I looked everywhere. I couldn’t find him, couldn’t even figure out how he’d gotten in.”

“Why didn’t you phone the police? Or even me?”

Dean shrugs, more casual than he feels, smile watery and membrane thin. He takes a drink of beer, an undoubtedly transparent attempt to mask his discomfort. He swallows down the cool liquid. “I had my gun. And if – “

Castiel holds up a hand, “Wait, wait, wait. You have a _gun_? Why do you have a gun, Dean?”

Dean’s not really sure how to explain that one without telling Castiel his whole life story. Which isn’t something he’s keen to do, at least not for tonight, if ever. Even Sam doesn’t know all of it.

Alastair isn’t something Dean wants to think about. Not when he’s awake anyway. Unfortunately, when he’s asleep, he has no control over what his mind chooses to relive.

Last night is one of only handful of nights that he hadn’t had nightmares. Mostly because sleep was a long time coming.

“It was a present from a friend. I’ve never used it.” Both barefaced lies. “But I’m certainly glad that I had it last night.” Definitely not a lie.

Castiel still looks unsure, “I _really_ don’t like it that he was in the house.”

His concern is sweet, if a little redundant. “I’m not exactly thrilled about it myself. But I’m okay. He didn’t attack me and I’m pretty sure nothing is missing. Except for the open bathroom door and the envelope in my pocket, there’s no sign that anyone was even here.”

It’s a mantra he’s been repeating to himself all day.

Castiel slides his arm off the back of the sofa, reaching out and gently squeezes Dean’s shoulder. “So… you just searched the house all by yourself?” He almost looks a little proud.

“Yeah.”

“I would’ve come over though, you know. All you had to do was call. I could have been here in ten minutes. Seven, if you’d asked nicely.”

It’s a joke – at least Dean’s pretty sure it is – but it still makes him fidget with an uncomfortable mixture of lust and shame. “I’ll bear that in mind the next time someone breaks in and scares the shit out of me.”

Castiel smiles tightly, letting his hand drop away from Dean’s shoulder, “What does the note say? Was there more money?”

“Afraid not.” Dean sighs. “You’re not going to like it. I know _I_ don’t.” He opens the envelope and removes the note. “’Dean,’” he reads aloud. “’This is a two player game. If you have any desire to continue, lose the third wheel. I must insist. J.’”

He hands the note to Castiel, whose eyes seem to darken as he reads it, but not in the same way as they had before their kiss yesterday. Infinitely more dangerous. “The plot thickens.” He mutters.

“What do you think?”

“Obviously, my presence is unwanted.”

“It also means that he watched us last night.” Dean points out.

“At least for part of the time.”

Dean shudders at the implication. Yeah. All the _wrong_ parts. He might never jerk off again. “It wouldn’t have been hard for him to hide. When we were inside the fence, it was so dark and there was so much stuff around.” He suddenly feels too hot and cold all at once, a distinctly odd feeling that brings with it a prickling sensation at the nape of his neck.  “He must have been there.”

“It’s possible,” Castiel admits slowly, eyes dark and serious.

“And he wanted me there by myself.” Dean’s arms and thighs feel a bit crawly too.

“I don’t like this at all, Dean. I can only think of one good reason for wanting me out of the way.”

“Yeah.” Dean slides his damp palms slowly up and down his thighs, rubbing them through the legs of his jeans. “That was my first thought, but it doesn’t make sense. If he wanted to attack me, he could’ve done it last night when I was in the shower. Would’ve been easy.”

“Then why does he want me out of the way?” Castiel asks, exasperation coloring his tone.

“Who the fuck knows? Why is he doing _any_ of this?”

Castiel shakes his head, looking down at the note in his hand.

“Maybe,” Dean says, “we need to take the whole thing at face value. Maybe it really is a game, and he thinks of himself as the big boss or something, and he doesn’t want anybody playing it except me.” It’s a shit theory, but a vaguely comforting one when compared side-by-side with the alternative.

“Dean,” Castiel says softly, _too_ softly. It’s a quality he’d heard in the voice of every nurse who had tended to him in the hospital, “Maybe it’s time to quit.”

“I know,” Dean says, gearing up for the admission that he knows isn’t going to be welcome. “I know, but – I sort of want to keep going with it.”

There’s a sharp inhale of breath from Castiel. “He broke into your fucking house, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean repeats. “I was there.” He’s pretty sure that was the point.

“There’s no telling what he might do.”

“Well, if his past actions are any indication, he’ll probably give me more money.” It’s flippant, yes, but Dean can’t really explain why he wants to continue with the whole thing, beyond wanting to know what game this guy is playing. And why.

“But _why_?”

Well, precisely.

“To keep me playing the game.” It’s the only answer he has for now. Maybe after tonight he’ll know more. Or maybe he’ll just be four hundred dollars richer. Either way, it can’t all be bad.

“He’s up to something.”

“We don’t know that,” Dean insists, though really, he’s not sure who here’s trying to kid here. Because honestly? The outlook isn’t good. He knows this, and yet he still says, “Maybe he’s some sort of mysterious benefactor. Like that creepy-ass guy in Great Expectations? The dude who popped up in the graveyard and scared the hell out of poor little Pip.”

“Magwitch.”

“Yeah, Magwitch. Maybe it’s something like that.”

Castiel sighs, resigned. “Nothing I say is going to persuade you not to do this, is it?”

“Nope.”

Castiel refolds the note and hands it back to Dean. He takes a long pull of his beer. “Fine. Well, just you remember that. When all this is over, however it ends. Just remember that. It’s _your_ decision.”

Dean grins brightly, feeling like he’s won something. What, he’s not sure, but either way, it feels like a victory. “You want it in writing?”

 

***

 

They eat pizza and drink beer and talk like a normal dating couple would. It’s actually quite pleasant, and Dean finds himself easily settling in to Castiel’s company, enjoying the flow of conversation.

_It could be like this all the time._

Dean almost doesn’t want to go to the bridge. _Almost_. The pull of the exciting unknown is stronger than the one of comfort and domesticity though. It always has been. It’s what lead him to Alastair in the first place, and probably what made him stay even when the violence escalated.

There’s a part of Dean that knows it’s not that simple.

Nothing in his life ever is.

Castiel wipes his fingers on a piece of kitchen roll, scrunches it up and drops it onto his plate. He sits back, satisfied, eyes on Dean as he drains his bottle of beer.

“What?” Dean can feel the blush spreading across his cheeks under the weight and intensity of Castiel’s gaze. Castiel doesn’t answer straightaway, just continues staring at Dean like he’s the only thing in the world worth seeing. He replaces the empty bottle on the glass coffee table with a soft clink.

Dean’s about ready to run off to hide in the kitchen, possibly splash himself with some cold water, maybe stuff some ice down his pants, when Castiel finally speaks.

“You’re so beautiful, Dean. So smart, so strong. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. As soon as I left last night, I wished I hadn’t.”

“I wish you hadn’t either.” Dean confesses, caught by the look in Castiel’s eyes.

For an instant, Castiel looks taken aback by the admission, but he recovers quickly, crooking a finger, and in a low voice that hits Dean like a punch to the gut, he says, “Come here.”

It doesn’t even occur to Dean to refuse. He goes, swinging his leg over Castiel’s so that he’s straddling Castiel’s lap, forearms braced against the back of the couch. He feels ten shades of awkward, but beneath that is a kind of delicious anticipation that fuels the desire coiling in his stomach.

Castiel slides his hands over Dean’s hips, up his sides, palms curling over Dean’s shoulders, pulling him downward until their bodies are pressed together, lips centimeters apart. Dean can feel the thud of Castiel’s heartbeat against his ribs, the way it’s picking up speed as he draws Dean closer, “May I kiss you, Dean?”

Dean’s next exhale is ragged and shaky, insides buzzing with want, body held completely still and taut for a split-second, before he moves, mouth crashing into Castiel’s, a hot mess of lips and tongue and teeth. Castiel opens for him, rushes to meet him, hands sliding up and round the back of his neck, fingertips gripping, pulling him even closer.

Dean groans, rolling his hips forward and grinding downward against the hot, hard line of Castiel’s cock in his jeans. Castiel moans into his mouth and grabs at Dean’s hips to still him, “Slow,” Castiel murmurs, words almost lost inside Dean’s mouth, “wanted this for so long. Don’t want it to be over so quickly.”

There’s something in Castiel’s words that Dean’s brain stumbles over, but it’s a fleeting wrinkle that quickly gets smoothed out because Castiel is kissing him again, tongue dipping into Dean’s mouth, teeth nipping at his lower lip until Dean’s letting out breathy moans, tiny choked off sounds that have Castiel’s hands tangling in his hair, tugging and pulling, hips thrusting upwards in time with Dean’s downward grinds.

It’s heady and perfect, mouths sliding together, rough and unrelenting, Castiel riding the cleft of Dean’s ass through their jeans, friction delicious and frustrating in equal measure. Dean’s about to suggest either a move to the bedroom or at the very least some kind of clothing removal, but there’s a loud alarm going off somewhere, and it takes him a few dazed, lust-filled seconds for the fog to lift.

It’s his phone alarm. The one he set to go off for half eleven so that he wouldn’t run the risk of being late for his ‘errand.’

_God-fucking-dammit._

“Fuck, I’ve gotta go,” Dean reluctantly pulls away and looks down into Castiel’s eyes, clear adoration and underlying arousal so deep seated in his expression that it makes Dean want to either press himself closer or yank himself away; he’s not entirely sure yet.

He stretches to get his phone, swiping across the screen to make the klaxon sound stop.

Castiel runs an idle hand down Dean’s back, blunt nails scraping and catching in the fabric of his Henley. “Do you want me to drive you? I can park and wait on the bridge while you go down after the money. If anything happens, you can shout.”

It’s a nice thought. Dean kisses Castiel slow and deep, a gentle tease and a promise of _later_ that hopefully takes the sting out of his words. “Thank you, but if he _is_ watching and he sees you, then it could well be game over. No more envelopes, no more clues, no more money. I don’t want that to happen. I want to play this out – as far as I can anyway. I’ll go alone.”

Castiel sighs, but doesn’t argue.

Something occurs to Dean. If the situation was reversed, he knows that he’d totally be thinking about it. “And don’t you dare follow me either. Stay away from the bridge.”

Castiel stiffens slightly under him. Caught out.

“I’m serious. You gotta promise me.”

He doesn’t say anything. Dean can feel his chest steadily rising and falling against his own.

Dean tries a different tack. “Please, Cas?”

“Cas?”

“Would you prefer _sir_?” It’s a low blow, but at this point, Dean is willing to try anything. If the way Castiel bites out a curse and his hips jerk upwards are any indication, then Dean would say it’s a success. He leans forward, so that his mouth is pressed against Castiel’s ear and continues, low and hot, “Promise me.”

Castiel turns his head slightly, watching Dean out of the corner of his eye. “What if he tries something?”

“He won’t.”

“Then why are you taking your gun?”

It’s either a very good guess or Dean’s just that obvious. He’d hidden the gun in the car before Castiel’s arrival, unsure how he would react to the fact that Dean had one in the first place, let alone the idea of him taking it out tonight.

He could deny it, but what would be the point?

“It’s just in case.” Dean says, sitting back on his heels. “I wouldn’t go if I thought… you know, that I’d be in real danger.”

“You said that you weren’t practiced with it.” Castiel points out. “What happens if something goes wrong and you need to use it?”

“Then I use it.” Dean says without hesitation, because honestly, he feels none. “But I’m sure that it’ll be okay.” He reaches forward, idly fiddling with the top button of Castiel’s shirt. “You changed the subject on me. I’m still waiting for your word Professor.”

“And what am I supposed to do in the mean time? Besides worry.”

“There are more beers in the fridge. Have another drink, watch some TV. Read something.”

Castiel makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat, “I’ve got the book in my car.”

“The Bukowski?”

“The Bukowski.”

“ _Promise me_.”

Castiel sighs and Dean gets the impression that he’s barely holding back from rolling his eyes. “Fine. I promise.”

“You promise what?”

“Is this necessary?”

“Yes. You promise what?”

“To stay out of it tonight. I won’t leave your house. Satisfied?” There’s a note of petulance there and Dean can’t quite suppress his smile.

“Thank you.” Dean kisses him again, more chaste this time. “I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing is hard.
> 
> Once again, thank you for the wonderful comments. You people are totes amazeballs and it really is a boost reading and replying to everything that you've taken the time to write.
> 
> Also, fair warning: There's quite a bit of derogatory language used in this chapter.

On the way to the bridge, Dean sees only one car in his rear-view mirror. It looks remarkably like a Ford. Annoyance blooms at the thought of Castiel breaking his promise after all, but then it turns off, and the road behind him remains empty for the rest of his journey.

He parks under a streetlight on Massachusetts Street.

He removes his gun and a flashlight – and wasn’t that a stroke of genius – from the mess of the glove compartment and forces it closed again, leaving his cell phone inside. It takes a couple of attempts; the self-locking mechanism has been dodgy for a while and Dean really should get around to fixing it.

It’s one thing to let the house get into a state of disrepair and untidiness. Another thing completely for his car’s condition to suffer.

Keys in hand, he climbs out of the Impala, shutting the door and locking it. He shoves the gun down the back of his waistband, draping his shirt over it and drops they key case into the front pocket of his jeans. He keeps the flashlight in his left hand, still switched off for the moment.

He walks briskly, constantly on the alert for anyone who could be watching him, but the whole area seems pretty quiet. There’s a bar a few blocks away, but the music from that is barely audible, no more than just a muted drone.

Once he’s a few feet onto the East Bridge, he leans against the metal railing and looks down. In the light from the nearest lamps, he can just barely make out the rocks and bushes on the embankment.

_This is really happening. You’re actually doing this. You’re going under a bridge. At midnight. By yourself. For four hundred bucks._

The notion makes Dean’s skin crawl a little.

He’s beginning to wish that he’s listened to Castiel. Maybe just a little bit. He can picture the professor lounging on the couch in Dean’s living room, _Pulp_ propped up on his lap. Dean wishes he was there. He could’ve been there. He _was_ there. About to get laid.

_Well, fuck._

Dean’s aware he’s made some dodgy choices in his time, but this one is definitely up amongst some of the more questionable.

He looks up and down the street. Other vehicles are parked along both sides of the road. A few scattered cars, a van or two, a pickup truck. Dean’s pretty sure that they’d arrived before him.

‘J’ is probably somewhere watching him right now.

_Nah. If he’s anywhere, he’s down below. Waiting under the bridge._

A comforting thought.

Dean ducks into the trees beyond the end of the bridge, searching for some kind of pathway. It seems like as good a time as any for the flashlight, so he flicks it on, thin beam of light illuminating the area in front of him. After a few minutes of searching, Dean locates the top of a path worn down by repeated footprints in the grass.

He dithers for a few moments, stuck between leaving the flashlight on so he can see where the fuck he’s going and turning it off so that he’s a little less visible.

He settles on turning it back off for the time being. Better to have trouble finding his way down the slope than to make himself conspicuous.

Somebody might very well be down there. His own personal troll. Or J. Or fuck-knows-who.

He carries the flashlight dark. Ready to flick on if he has to. Ready to swing if somebody leaps at him.

He moves slowly, watching the steep ground just in front of his feet, trying to stay on the vague blur of the path. He’s just starting to relax into the steady rhythm of it, when – as he plants the heel of his left boot on the slope, shifting his weight forward – he feels the slick ground jerk his foot out from under him.

His ass hits the earth, sending a jolt up his back and into his head. The butt of the gun digs uncomfortably into his lower back.

“Fuck’s sake.” He mutters as he feels cool moisture seeping through the seat of his jeans. He struggles none too gracefully to his feet, and standing precariously on the dewy slope, begins the futile attempt to dust himself down. No serious injuries, just a sore ass and a bruised ego.

_Could be worse. Could’ve sat down on a sharp rock. Or a broken bottle. Or a board with a nail sticking up._

He resists the urge to start singing Monty Python’s ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.’

He begins moving again more slowly, successfully reaching level ground at the bottom of the slope without falling a second time. He leans back against a tree near the shore of the river, panting for air.

He really should consider going to the gym.

“Dean!” A man’s scratchy voice, like he smokes fifty a day.

It knocks his breath out. Rigid, he presses his back hard against the tree.

_Fuck._

He’s been seen. Panic claws up Dean’s throat, heart hammering against his ribcage as he reaches for his gun. He’s not going to shoot – not unless he’s forced to – but he’s not against using it as a threat.

A slightly different male voice says, “Huh?”

“That’s what it says here. Dean. D-E-A-N. You know, as in James _Dean_.”

For a second, Dean freezes, hand on the gun still tucked in his waistband, as his brain tries to figure out what the fuck is going on. Then it occurs to him. Voice number one is reading.

_Reading off the envelope. Ah, fuck. Perfect._

Just what he needs. However, on the bright side – ‘cause Dean’s all about that lately – it does mean that they haven’t seen him and he’s relatively safe. For now.

“The fuck is that?” Voice number two asks.

“Look.” Number one says. “Some sorta letter for a Dean.”

“Open it.”

“Don’t know if I oughta. It’s meant for Dean. I ain’t Dean. You sure as shit ain’t Dean.”

“Fuck Dean. Open it.”

The bark is rough through the back of his shirt as Dean lowers himself to a crouch, twisting uncomfortably on his haunches and peering past the side of the tree.

At first, he can’t see the men at all.

Then he finds two figures under the bridge, black against the lesser darkness beyond them. They seem to be standing. One of the men is tall and skinny, with a weirdly huge, misshaped head. The shorter man looks broad and bulky with a normal shaped head.

They’re further away than Dean had been expecting, considering the volume of their voices. Though it could be amplification due to the acoustics of the bridge rather than their actual loudness.

“I can’t see shit. Strike up a match.”

A moment later, light flares. The ruddy flutter of the match light shows that the bizarre shape of the tall man’s head isn’t caused by bulging deformities of bone and flesh. It’s a messy tangle of hair. He stands with his side towards Dean, and the other man stands in the way, blocking much of his view. They’re both wearing long, heavy coats.

_Fuckin’ junkies._

They’re not exactly subtle.

“Holy shit, there’s four hundred bucks in here! Ow!” The tall one jerks his arm and kills the light. A couple of seconds later, another match flares.

At this point, Dean is pretty sure that the money and note are a lost cause. Unless he fights them – which isn’t something he’s massively keen to do. Not for four hundred dollars and another clue.

“Shit.” Says the short one, “They real?”

“Sure look real.”

“You reckon our Dean is a rent boy? This his pay or some shit?”

“You don’t pay whores up front Mikey. You should know that better than anyone.”

“You also don’t pay whores four hundred bucks, Vince. But apparently Dean is a high-class hooker. Should we wait around for him? Might be able to persuade him to sell us a different kinda crack.” Dean doesn’t need to be able to see Mikey’s face to tell that he’s leering, probably pleased with himself and his disgusting little joke.

“Don’t be a fucking fag, Mike. What’s the letter say?”

As if on cue, the second match goes out.

In the darkness, Mikey says, “Who the fuck cares? We got us some money. Let’s go give Ad a call and get ourselves some top quality crystal.” Another match sparks into life.

“Yeah, alright. How we gonna split this up then? Even-Stevens?”

There’s a part of Dean – a part clearly in need of psychiatric help – that is considering just stepping out and showing himself. Telling them that they’re welcome to the money, but can he please have the note?

_Brilliant idea._

It probably wouldn’t end well.

“Reckon that’s fair.”

There’s nothing about this situation that’s fair.

_Story of your life, Winchester. Time to nut up or shut up._

The match dies.

Dean wants the money. He wants the note more. He knows that he could just forget about it, could just forget about the whole thing. Go home and see what Castiel is up to. Consider himself lucky to be out of it three hundred and fifty bucks to the good, unscathed, and with a… whatever Castiel is or might grow to be.

_“’Winners never quit and quitters never win.’”_

_“You think this is a game that you can win?”_

He’s not so sure about the answer to that anymore.

During the short period of darkness, the two have changed positions. Now, they’re standing facing each other, their profiles to Dean. Mikey is holding out both hands towards Vince, lit match in his right. Dean can feel no breeze at all, but the match flame shivers and wobbles, casting a crimson glow that makes the two men look ghoulish.

Mikey’s left hand is open, palm up.

Vince deals him two bills.

Two hundreds.

Dean’s money.

“Fair ‘n’ square?” Vince asks.

“Fair ‘n’ square.” Mikey agrees, head bobbing up and down.

Vince tucks the other two bills back into the envelope, folding it and shoving it into the side pocket of his long, bulky coat. Then he says, “Fuck this. Let’s go get a drink. Celebrate, before we give Ad a call.”

Mikey shakes out his match. “Spose Dean’s gonna show up?”

“Ah, probably, but he’ll be left wantin’, won’t he? ‘Cause we got his money.”

They both laugh, horrible hacking filthy guffaws as they begin walking alongside the riverbank. At first Dean thinks that they’re walking _away_ from him.

Turns out, not so much. They’re heading straight towards Dean, who is still barely hidden behind the tree like the worst kind of spy.

Shit. 

Dean weighs up his options. He could attempt to run. But which way?

Up the slope? Too steep and slippery. All it would take would be for him to fall flat on his face, then he’s fucked. Quite literally if Mikey gets his way.

Run up the shore? Dean doesn’t know his way around. He could end up in a dead end or worse still, run into more assholes.

He could hide – or more accurately stay completely still where he is. Probably the path of least resistance. Though, if he’s spotted, it could mean trouble.

Or he could be proactive. He’s got a gun. He could stand his ground, take back what’s his.

It suddenly strikes him with no hint of irony that this dilemma applies to so much more than the immediate situation. Running and hiding have become second nature to him now. It is, after all, why he’s in Lawrence. But when did fighting stop being an option? When did he become a spectator in his own life? Passive and compliant and just _letting_ things happen to him?

He knows the answer to that of course. Knows the exact date, but maybe it’s time to become an active participant in his life again; stop being complicit in his own descent into mediocrity and start being someone who can look at himself in the mirror without cringing.

Of course, it’s easier said than done, but now feels like as good a time as any to start.

Dean twists around so he can no longer see Mikey and Vince, and rises slowly to his feet, back to the tree trunk.

Their voices are coming closer and closer. Dean can’t follow what they’re saying; he’s only thinking about the distance. Ten or twelve feet away. He jams his flashlight into the front pocket of his jeans. It’s a pretty tight fit, and the bulb end is digging into his hip, but it’ll have to do.

Now maybe six. His hands are shaking a little as he tugs the gun out of the waistband of his jeans, but it doesn’t matter because he’s _taking control_.

Now probably just on the other side of the tree. He thumbs the safety off.

Now coming alongside the tree. He swallows hard, focuses on what he’s got to do rather than the frenetic pounding of his heart.

_Fuck. You picked a Hell of a time to sort your shit out._

“Holy fucking shit!” Vince blurts, visibly flinching.

Dean steps out from behind the relative safety of the tree, gun raised and pointed directly at Vince. He changes the aim to Mikey, before moving it back to Vince. “You’ve got something that belongs to me. Hand it over.” He mentally pats himself on the back for managing to keep his voice even.

He’s almost glad for the darkness at this point; it makes him seem more intimidating, more like someone from their world, rather than an edgy librarian who’s having some kind of existential crisis.

“You Dean?” Up close, they’re both even uglier. Mikey especially. Teeth missing, wiry whiskers and pallid skin. Dean can see why the guy’s gotta pay for it.

“Hence why I said that it’s mine.” Sometimes it feels good to be the smartest one in any group. Even if the bar is set so low that it’s still on the ground.

Apparently unperturbed by the fact that he’s at the business end of a gun, Mikey asks, “Are you a hooker?”

“Fuck’s sake,” Vince mutters. He reminds Dean of a less pleasant Danny DeVito, “Does he look like a fuckin’ hooker?”

“Well, it’s kinda hard to see in this light, but he’s got a nice pair of lips on him. Built for blow j-“

They’re making him nauseous. “Shut up, asshole.”

Mikey smiles; at least Dean thinks he does. With all the missing teeth, it’s kinda hard to tell. “Tell ya what, _Dean_. We’ll make a deal. You give us what we want and we’ll return the favour.”

Dean doesn’t need to think too hard about what it is they want. It only strengthens his desire to not back down, “How about no. Instead you can just give me the envelope. With all of the money and I don’t shoot either of you?”

“Alright, fine.” Vince holds up his left hand in surrender whilst reaching into his coat pocket with the right. Mikey shifts his weight from one foot to the other, but makes no move to retrieve the two hundred dollars Dean knows he has. That’s alright. Dean will get to him in a minute. He needs to focus on Vince just in case he’s stupid enough to try something, like pulling a weapon.

Vince pulls the envelope out and holds it in the air, distracting Dean for a split second. But it’s in that split second that things go from bad to worse.

Mikey’s faster – and smarter – than Dean had anticipated. Which considering he’d written them both off as a pair of feckless junkies isn’t really saying much. But it’s a mistake that he pays for when there’s a blur of movement and suddenly Mikey is _right there_ , reaching for Dean’s gun.

There aren’t many upsides to getting the shit kicked out of you on a regular basis. However, along with the ability to take a punch and act like it doesn’t hurt, comes sharper reflexes in violent situations. Which is why Dean reacts quickly, instinctively, and manages to draw back in enough time to stop Mikey from achieving his goal. Without thinking, he cracks the barrel of the gun across the fucker’s temple, knocking his head sideways, spit flying, blood blooming instantly at his hair line.

_Holy shit, what was that Winchester?_

Nobody takes the time to be surprised because Dean’s busy receiving a punch to the ribs from Vince, blast of pain hot and jarring, and Mikey’s apparently decided that his friendship with Vince isn’t worth another injury and so he takes off, stumbling over his own feet in his haste to get away.

No honor among junkies after all.

Vince ducks just in time to miss the elbow that Dean throws in retaliation, but he’s not quick enough to dodge the knee that Dean brings up into his groin, letting out a shriek that sounds more like a wolf’s clarion call.

He doubles over, gasping, deep racking breaths that make Dean stop himself from kicking the fucker in the face like he deserves.

“You bastard, you fucking pretty boy bastard –“

“You really wanna do this?” Dean asks, still winded, because _he_ sure as shit doesn’t. He’s still pointing the gun at Vince, but his aim isn’t exactly what it was before he got sucker punched, and it’s probably obvious to even the dippiest dipshit by now that Dean isn’t exactly a tour de force when it comes to fighting.

Vince looks up at him from the corner of his eye and Dean knows what’s going to happen, even before it does.

Dean doesn’t wanna shoot Vince. He doesn’t really wanna fight him either, but that doesn’t seem like a concern Vince is troubling himself with. The flashlight is still wedged in the pocket of his jeans, so Dean reaches for it, bringing it into contact with the crown of Vince’s head just as the man rushes forward, with his body low and aiming for a tackle that would make Reggie White proud. There’s an audible cracking noise at it makes contact and Dean just hopes that it’s the plastic of the flashlight rather than Vince’s skull.

They both go down, Dean hitting the damp ground with a heavy – and painful – thud, Vince landing half on top of him. Dean immediately tries to shove him off, scrabbling for purchase on the slippery embankment to get out from underneath the fat fuck.

The fat fuck who isn’t moving.

_Ah, shit._

Well, this could have gone better.

_Could’ve gone worse too._

Dean slowly pushes himself up, back aching, muscles on fire and straining with the effort. He feels like Bambi on ice as he staggers to his feet and looks down at the motionless body at his feet. He tucks the gun back into the waistband of his jeans, but keeps hold of the flashlight.

The envelope. Dean needs to find the envelope. Then he’ll figure out what to do with Vince. Maybe get back to the car and call an ambulance or something?

_Stellar idea. And tell them what exactly? That you started a junkie fight club?_

He searches in the darkness, even less keen to switch the flashlight on now that he’s got a body and no good explanation. He finds the envelope pretty easily; a white rectangle against the backdrop of blackness, despite the smudges of mud and Christ-knows-what-else all over it.

Behind him, there’s the rustle of movement followed by a familiar-sounding phlegmy cough.

Whipping around, Dean finds Vince on his hands on his knees, head hanging as he gasps in huge breaths. Relief floods him, almost makes him dizzy with it. But then the panic is back as Vince starts to clamber to his feet.

“Don’t you dare fucking move!” Dean snaps, attempting to sound commanding rather than flustered. “Stay right where you are!”

Apparently it hits the mark because Vince freezes, doing as he’s told for the first time tonight, still coughing and wheezing, watching from the ground as Dean crouches to grab the envelope.

Dean needs both hands to open it, so he clamps the flashlight between his thighs. He picks at the torn opening of the envelope, spreads the edges and takes a quick look inside, checking the contents. He can see what looks like a couple of bills and a folded sheet of lined paper. Everything seems to be intact.

_Everything except the other two hundred Mikey ran off with._

Dean’s still got half of the money though. And the note. Which is the important thing.

_Is it though?_

He’s pretty sure that the most important thing should be that he didn’t kill anybody. Or get killed.

“Stay right there.” He tells Vince again, removing the flashlight from between his thighs. Keeping his eyes on the bastard, Dean steps backwards towards the slope. The ground begins to rise behind him. He turns to the slope and starts climbing. After a few strides, he looks down over his shoulder. “Stay right…”

Vince is gone.

_Well, fuck._

Flashlight in one hand, note from J in the other, he bounds up the steep slippery hillside, scarcely avoiding falling. He runs all the way to his car, fumbles for his keys and throws himself into the driver’s seat, tugging the gun out from his waistband and tossing it – along with the note and flashlight – onto the seat next to him. He slams the door shut and sits there panting and gasping for air, mind racing.

He’s suddenly hit with a wave of nausea, can feel the nasty burning sensation making its way up his throat, and he throws open the car door again, leaning out just far enough to vomit his stomach’s contents onto the asphalt below.

_Well, fuck, indeed._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thanks for all the comments and kudos, guys! Very much appreciated and gratefully received :).
> 
> I'm not 100% happy with this chapter, but I'm posting it 'cause it's gone half eleven here and I have to be up for work at five.

Dean stops on the front porch. Crouching down with the note from ‘J’ in one hand, he uses his other to untie the laces and pull his muddy boots off, drawing them together and dropping them beside the welcome mat with a dull thunk. He’s just about to stand up again when Castiel opens the door.

Dean smiles up at him. It seems to require a metric fuck-ton of energy. He’s almost too worn out to think about the sexual connotations of this position. _Almost._

“Dean? What happened?”

He feels too weary/filthy/achy to answer that question for the moment. So he shrugs and shakes his head as he straightens up.

Castiel looks ready to reach for him, concern in his eyes. Dean shakes his head again. “You really don’t wanna touch me.” He says. “Here. Take this.” He thrusts the note at Castiel.

“So you got it,” Castiel says, removing it from his hand. “Are you all right?”

“Not sure,” Dean waves him aside. Castiel moves out of the way and Dean trudges into the house.

“Are you hurt?”

“Not especially.” Dean knows he’s being recalcitrant, but he’s got mud and bits of grass caked to his skin, he’s sure Castiel will forgive his brusqueness. He turns towards the stairs, but looks over his shoulder at Castiel. “Can you stick around for a bit? I’ve got to shower and change. Okay?”

If this were any other night, he’d be thinking about inviting Castiel to join him, but this isn’t any other night. Dean just wants to get clean before he even considers anything else. Castiel seems to sense this and doesn’t say anything other than a neutral, “Okay.”

Dean’s grateful. “Thanks. I’ll tell you all about…” He stops at the bottom of the stairs and looks over his shoulder at Castiel. “I need a drink.”

“I’ll get it for you. What do you want?”

“Jim Beam. It’s in the cupboard by the fridge. And a glass. Get one for yourself too, if you want.”

“Ice?”

Dean shuts his eyes and shakes his head.

“I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be in the john.”

As Castiel moves off towards the kitchen, Dean starts his long ascent up the stairs. Everything is effort, and it’s like he’s nothing more than a bag of creaking joints and aching muscles. He makes it to the top eventually though and staggers his way down the hallway and into the bathroom. He leaves the door open.

Standing by the sink, he removes the keys from his jeans pocket, setting them on the counter. He pats himself down, making sure that there isn’t anything else in any of the other pockets. All empty. The gun, flashlight and his cell are still in the car.

“Ugh.” He’ll sort it out… whenever he can’t still taste bile and grass.

Speaking of.

He leans down, turns on the faucet, and fills his mouth with water, swilling it around before spitting it out again. A couple more rinses and he feels marginally less disgusting. He turns it off and straightens up.

He shambles over to the toilet, lowering the lid, and sits down.

Groaning with the effort, he bends low and peels off his socks. His ribs ache like Hell and he definitely isn’t anywhere near as fit as he used to be. Not that he ever was the poster boy for fitness and wellbeing, what with the amount of pie he eats, but his stomach didn’t always have the softness to it that it currently does.

_Should be thankful for the extra bit of cushioning. Otherwise that punch **really** would have hurt._

He raises his head as Castiel appears with the bottle and two glasses. He sits up completely, balling up his socks and tossing them into the corner of the bathroom.

“Here. You look like you need this.” Castiel sets the glasses on the counter, nudging Dean’s keys out of the way.

As Castiel starts to pour, Dean says roughly, “Understatement. Think I broke the flashlight.”

Castiel doesn’t reply to that, though he’s got to be dying to know what went down. Dean’s covered in sludge, wincing and slightly favoring one side; it doesn’t take someone as smart as Castiel to figure out that shit most likely went sideways.

Once again, Dean’s thankful for Castiel’s discretion. Though Dean doesn’t doubt that he’ll be in for it later. In a decidedly non-sexy way.

“Looks like you only got two hundred this time.”

So Castiel has been looking through the envelope. That’s fair. If the situation were reversed, Dean would have probably done a lot worse. Like followed Castiel to the bridge. Or at the very least made him tell Dean everything the second the poor bastard got through the door.

“Yeah. Somebody else got a share.” Castiel hands a glass to Dean. “Thanks. I’ll tell you about it all later.” He fills his mouth with bourbon. He sloshes it around and holds it, feeling its heat soak into his tongue and gums and cheeks. After a while, the inside of his mouth begins to tingle and burn, making his eyes water. He swallows and sighs.

Castiel watches him, studying and scrutinizing, an expression on his handsome face like he’s torn between chastisement and wrapping Dean in a blanket and never letting him back outside.

Dean fills his mouth again.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

Dean nods as he swallows, shifts a little, so that he’s sitting with his elbows on his knees. “Just worn out. Drained.”

“You’re going to be okay in the shower? I’m not sure I want to end the night by phoning an ambulance because you’ve brained yourself in the bathtub.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “I swear your come-ons are getting less and less subtle, professor.”

“If I thought even for a second that you’d be capable of anything more than managing to stand, we would already be in the shower. Want a refill before I leave you to it?”

Usually, Dean would be internally flailing, or blushing ridiculously right about now. As it is, both of those things require energy that he doesn’t currently possess, so he simply nods and holds out his empty glass. Castiel adds enough for another mouthful. “All set?”

Dean nods again.

“See you when you’re out,” Castiel says, stepping out into the hallway and shutting the bathroom door behind him.

Dean thinks about locking it. Decides against it. Castiel isn’t gonna try anything.

Even if Dean kinda wishes he would.

_No you don’t. You couldn’t get it up now if your life depended on it._

Eh. He’d be happy to die trying though.

He swallows the last of the bourbon, then takes the glass to the counter and sets it down with a soft clink. Turning his back on the mirror, he strips out of his soggy Henley and muddy jeans. His boxers are damp too and they join the pile of clothes in the corner of the bathroom.

Stepping over to the tub, he spreads the bathmat on the floor and turns the water for the shower on.

He feels so incredibly tired. Right down to his bones. And sore in every muscle, filthy, half numb inside his head. It’s only been about thirty six hours since the first note in the library, but it feels like an entire lifetime has passed.

When the water is at a decent temperature, Dean climbs into the tub and shuts the glass door. The strong hot spray feels good, but it saps away even more of his energy, leaving him feeling lethargic and ready for sleep. Though little energy is needed to soap himself, his arms ache and grow heavy as he washes his hair.

Finally, satisfied that he’s as clean as humanly possible without involving bleach, he sinks down and sits on the bottom of the tub. Hot water splashing down on him, he folds his arms around his knees and hangs his head.

The position isn’t super comfortable, but it’s worth it ‘cause the water feels awesome.

So awesome.

He could almost sleep…

It could be minutes or hours later when he wakes up, shivering, gasping out a rather loud, “FUCK!” as he finds himself being drenched by ice cold water. He lurches upwards, scrambling to his feet. He’s just fumbling for the controls to switch the damn water off, when there’s a shift in atmosphere and what little steam there is left in the room gets sucked outwards by the door being yanked open.

Dean yelps – in a manly way, of course – and Castiel is standing there in the bathroom,  chest heaving like he’s run a marathon, and there’s only the glass shower door separating them, and Dean’s _completely naked_ , and this _so_ isn’t how he imagined being naked in front of Castiel for the first time and –

“Cas! What the fuck?”

“Are you all right? I heard you shout and you’d been so long, so I was worried and…” He trails off, averting his eyes, “Shit, sorry.”

If Dean had the energy, he’d laugh. Turns out though that he does have _just_ enough to blush, so awkwardly standing there, face red and heart hammering, he says, “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Pass me a towel?”

 

***

 

Dressed in loose sweats and an old, worn Zeppelin t-shirt, Dean shuffles into the living room, feeling marginally more alert than he had before his shower, which is probably equal parts thanks to the cold water and Castiel’s surprise visit.

Though he’ll pay for it tomorrow; will probably fall asleep at work, face down in a pile of Stephen Kings.

Beats reading them.

Castiel’s sitting on the couch after his awkward exit from the bathroom and he turns to greet Dean with a soft smile that Dean can’t help but return. It’s like some kind of bizarre reflex.

“Hey,” Dean says, dropping down next to him. He lets his head fall back to rest against the back of the couch with a contented sigh. It feels good to be clean and sitting on something comfortable again.

Turning towards Dean, Castiel brings his knee up onto the cushion, leaning sideways and resting his arm across the couch. His fingertips brush lightly against Dean’s temple, toying with the still damp tips of his hair. Dean lets his eyelids flutter closed, enjoying the way Castiel’s fingers curl around the shell of his ear.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” It’s a genuine question, not one laden with pressure or impatience. Just a straightforward enquiry.

So Dean answers, “Yeah.” He rolls his head to look at Castiel properly. “I could use another drink first though.”

“Have you got your glass? Or is it still in the bathroom?” Castiel starts to rise. Dean stops him with a hand on his arm.

“No and yes. We can share though, can’t we? Pretty sure I don’t have cooties.”

Castiel settles back down with a mild smile. “I think it’s a little late for me if you do.”

“Mm.” Dean agrees, warmth flooding through him at the memory of Castiel pressed against him, the two of them tangled from lips to legs. There must be something in his expression, written all over his face for Castiel to read, because in the next instant, he’s there, leaning over Dean, hands framing his face, looking at him like he’s something precious, something to cherish and worship.

“Tell me if this isn’t okay,” he murmurs, pad of his thumb tracing over Dean’s cheekbone.

“So okay. So so okay.” Dean hooks one arm around Castiel’s neck and pulls him in closer. Castiel’s lips descend on his, soft and almost tentative at first, starting off with shallow swipes of tongue, growing deeper with each kiss they pass back and forth.

It lacks the fevered urgency of their two previous kisses, but it’s no less passionate; it’s mellow and soothing and everything that Dean needs right now. He’s not usually a huge fan of kissing; generally sees it as a means to an end, a quick tongue fuck before getting to the actual fucking, but this is different. Castiel makes it an experience all on its own and it’s as addictive and captivating as the man himself.

Castiel eases his mouth away, fingertips trailing down the curve of Dean’s jaw, thumb ghosting over Dean’s kiss-swollen bottom lip. “So beautiful.”

Cheeks hot, pulse racing, Dean swallows hard, fighting the overwhelming compulsion to be flippant and make a joke. Castiel is looking _into_ him, like he sees something beyond the surface, sees something in Dean, like he’s not just talking about Dean’s physical beauty.

Dean’s about to say something, anything to splinter the intensity of the moment, but he’s got nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Dean Winchester, rendered mute by nothing more than a kiss and a look.

_Wonders never cease._

Ostensibly sensing his discomfort, Castiel moves away, reaching for the whisky on the coffee table and offers it to Dean. “Here.”

Dean takes a drink and waits a few seconds whilst Castiel settles back down onto the couch as he was before their kiss. Dean hands the glass back to him with a wan smile. “Thanks.”

Castiel drains the amber contents of the glass, leaning forwards and replacing it on the table.

Dean takes a deep steadying breath, figuring that Castiel has been patient enough. It’s only fair that he’s told the full story of Dean’s little adventure under the bridge. “Okay. So I parked on Massachusetts Street, guessed it’d be easier that way. I left my cell in the car, but took the flashlight and gun with me…”

And he goes on, telling Castiel every detail he can remember about his quest for the envelope, describing Vince and Mikey in detail – so Castiel can get the full visceral effect – mimicking their speech, leaving out nothing.

Well, almost nothing.

He makes no mention of Mikey’s innuendo about Dean’s crack. Not out of embarrassment; no, it’s more that even the thought of it makes him want to throw up again. Which would significantly decrease the likelihood of more kisses.

Castiels listens to it all, a mostly worried look on his face. Sometimes it edges into something darker, less quantifiable, but he never interrupts Dean’s story.

After Dean finishes, Castiel remains silent, eyes dark and expression serious.

“So what do you think?” Dean asks, though he’s got a pretty good idea. His story is not going to be met with praise and jubilation, of that much he’s certain.

“I should have gone with you.” Castiel’s voice is flat, giving nothing away in its tone or cadence.

“Perhaps.” Dean concedes cautiously, not sure yet where the land lies. It’s as close to admitting that he may have been wrong as he’s going to get for now.

“No perhaps about it.”

“It worked out okay.”

“Oh yeah. It worked out just great. You got yourself beaten – “

Dean interjects, a little put out by the obvious sarcasm, “Hardly beaten, pretty sure that the other guy – “

But Castiel isn’t done, “You might have been killed. And you damn near _did_ kill that Vince bastard.”

Dean’s tired. Facetiousness rather than seriousness suddenly seems like the route to take, “Don’t forget that Mikey got away with half my money.”

Castiel gives him a pointed look and Dean can totally see the teacher in him. The firm but fair, attractive fucker who has his students doing whatever he wants, because they just want to please him. Or maybe that’s just Dean, but he doubts it. “That’s the least of it.” His expression changes slightly, softens into something else that Dean hopes is close to respect, but doesn’t dare to believe it. “Sounds like you _did_ hold your own though.”

Dean winces a little at a phantom twinge in his ribs. “Doesn’t really feel like it.”

And then Castiel’s hand is there, warm gentle pressure over the soreness of Dean’s ribs through his shirt. “No, I’d imagine not. But you made the best of a bad situation.”

“It’s what I’m good at.” Dean quips, before he really thinks about the consequences. Castiel’s hand feels nice, calming.

Castiel tilts his head, “Is it? I would say that your ability to deflect is second to none.”

_He’s got a point._

Dean could make a joke. He doesn’t. It’d be easy to pretend that he’s taking the moral high ground, but in reality, he’s just too exhausted to attempt that level of wit.

Castiel seems to intuit this, but elects not to draw attention to it. Instead he says, “Do I need to ask whether you’ll be going after the next note? Despite what happened tonight?”

“Tonight was a fluke.”

“Was it? How can you be sure of that? What if Vince and Mikey were sent by your mysterious ‘J’? What happens if one of them was him?”

Both are possibilities that Dean has considered. His quiet laugh is an uneasy one, “It’s possible, but I doubt it. Just a fluke, like I said. Two idiots with nothing better to do than to hang about under bridges.”

“Maybe, maybe not. You were lucky this time. One of these days you might run into more trouble than you can handle.”

“You have no idea what kind of trouble I can handle.” Dean mutters, trying not to sound bitter and failing miserably. “I’ve dealt with worse than those two.”

“Of that I’ve no doubt.” Castiel murmurs, gently pushing Dean’s shirt up far enough to expose the forming smudge of purple bruising across his ribs. “But forgive me if I don’t want to see you hurt again.”

“I forgive you,” Dean says, forcing what he knows is a weak imitation of a smile. “I don’t wanna see me hurt again either.”

Leaning to the side, Castiel lifts the envelope off the coffee table and passes it to Dean. “Just be careful, Dean.”

Dean carefully removes the two bills from the envelope and sets them down on the arm of the couch. Despite the smears of mud across the envelope, the note inside remains intact, if a little creased and Dean unfolds it.

He reads it aloud, “’Dear Dean, Glad this wasn’t a bridge too far. How far will you go? To the moon? To the stars? To the pits of Hell? Or all the way to Paradise? Tomorrow, when churchyards yawn, see the Babe. Yours, J.’”

They’re both silent for a moment, absorbing the words, quietly thoughtful. Something from the recesses of Dean’s mind pricks at his consciousness and he says, “’Churchyards yawn?’ I don’t suppose that’s a reference to Hamlet? As in ‘when churchyards yawn and Hell itself breathes out contagion to this world’?”

Castiel looks impressed. “’The very witching time of night.’”

“Is that midnight then?”

“I believe so.”

“Midnight again. Okay. At midnight, I’m supposed to see the Babe. With a capital ‘B’. Babe Ruth? Babe the sheep-pig? Any more statues that I need to know about?”

“Not anywhere around here.” Castiel says, brow creased, looking a little puzzled himself, “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves, though. Why don’t we start from the beginning and work through from there?”

“Okay. The beginning… ‘A Bridge Too Far’, well that _could_ be an allusion to the Cornelius Ryan book. I’m pretty sure we have a copy in the library.”

“Maybe the envelope is in the book.”

“Check the index for a Babe?” Dean suggests. It’s a long shot. And far too easy. Judging by tonight’s events, the difficulty curve is a little steeper than that.

It seems like he and Castiel are on the same page. “Doubt if that’s even close.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “I think he’s just trying to be clever.” He looks down at the note again, checking for the next line, “‘How far will you go?’ Innuendo, perhaps?”

“Clearly, the man knows his audience.”

“Ha. Ha. ‘To the moon?’”

“Could be a Jackie Gleason fan.”

Dean shudders theatrically. “God I hope not. It’d be worse than we thought. Okay, so. ‘To the moon? To the stars? To the pits of Hell?’ Sounds like the worst kind of tour package holiday. Think I’ll skip.”

“You draw the line at the pits of Hell?” Castiel asks, teasing lilt to his voice.

“Yeah. We should be up to eight hundred bucks for this one, right? Well that ain’t enough for a visit to the pits of Hell.”

“What about Paradise?”

“Meh. I hear the place has stiff entry requirements.”

Castiel grins, unmistakably filthy, “Like being virtuous and sinless?”

“Like being dead.”

They both laugh, though Castiel’s is low and sexy, whilst Dean’s is bordering on giddy and hysterical. He’s tired, he needs to sleep. He leans his head on Castiel’s shoulder and lets his eyes slip shut. Castiel drapes an arm around him and pulls Dean closer.

“Mm. This is nice.” It feels good to have someone looking after him. It’s not something he’s used to letting people do. He's not used to really wanting/needing it either, but Castiel isn’t overbearing with his care, he’s just on the right side of affection and attention, making Dean wonder what he's been missing all this time, or if it's just the Castiel effect. Most likely the latter. Castiel's hand roams over Dean’s skin, palm warm and soft and there’s nothing sexual about the touch; feather light and purely for comfort. If asked, he’d deny being a cuddler ‘til his dying day, but right here, Dean is happier than he can remember being in a long time.

Despite his current aches and pains.

He’s just in that amazing place halfway between sleep and wakefulness, when he hears a quietly spoken, “Dean?”

It takes him a few pleasantly hazy seconds to respond, “Mm?”

“I just wanted you to know that I’m not sorry at all about seeing you naked earlier.”

Dean manages a quiet huff of laughter. “No?”

“In fact, I’d definitely like to do it again sometime. Maybe under _slightly_ different circumstances though.”

They both fall silent again, and Dean feels himself gradually slipping into unconsciousness, lulled by the steady beat of Castiel’s heart and the gentle warmth of his hand.

_Safe._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reet. Firstly, thanks again guys. Especially to the ones commenting regularly. I have a special place in my heart reserved for each one of you.
> 
> Secondly, we are rapidly approaching sexaytimes and explanations.
> 
> Thirdly, due to me taking on overtime to cover holidays, I'm gonna have to drop updates down to just Mondays for the next few weeks. If I manage to write two chapters, I'll post on Thursdays too, but I can't guarantee it. We'll be back to normal soon though.

At two minutes to midnight, Dean swings open the door of the rather smoky and dimly lit Paradise Lounge. The air is stale with the mixed odors of beer and bodies and Dean already kinda likes the place. Off to one side, pool balls clack, followed by a loud, _“Fuck yeah!”,_ there’s Warrant on the jukebox, and the wooden floorboards are nicely tacky with…whatever. Dean probably shouldn’t think too hard about that.

He’d known that he wouldn’t be stepping into some kind of wine bar with women in their finery and men in tuxedos or anything, but Castiel had warned that the place was a total dive, full of unsavory types. Which it is, but not so much that Dean feels like he’s about to be knifed at any moment.

It had been Dean’s decision to come here. Googling on his lunch break, whilst simultaneously on the phone to Castiel, had yielded only three places in all of Lawrence with Paradise in the name; a memorial park, a bowling alley, and the Paradise Lounge.

Understandably, Castiel had been skeptical. “What’s to say that it isn’t the other two?” He’d asked, voice deeper over the phone, papers shuffling in the background. “Or even something related to Hell, or the moon or stars?”

“Well, according to its website, the bowling alley isn’t open on Thursdays. And the memorial park? Well, I dunno, the bar just seems like the more probable place. If I’m wrong, I can always swing by there afterwards. As for Hell and the astronomy shit, well there’s just nothing related to any of them that I can find. Paradise seems like the way to go.”

After a lot more to-ing and fro-ing on the subject, Castiel had relented and told Dean to call him if he ran into any trouble and the second he got home. Dean had expressed concerns about waking the professor up, especially as neither of them have gotten much sleep over the past couple of nights, but Castiel had simply responded, “Do you really think that I’m going to get any sleep before your phone call?”

“You said you would.”

“I lied.”

Dean had grinned like an idiot and solemnly promised to call the very _instant_ he got home, then ended the phone call and polished off his BLT.

Standing there in the dive bar with more bikers than a Harley convention, Dean wonders if Castiel had also lied about his intentions of spending the night at his apartment.

He almost hopes so.

He’d be furious with Castiel, would give him Hell, but he knows for certain that the cold hard knot in his belly would loosen at least a little, if he were to find the professor here. The moral support would be much appreciated even if Dean would do his damndest to act like it was an unwarranted interference.

Dean scans the place, looking for, but not seeing Castiel. He’s not sitting at one of the tables, or standing by the pool table, or perched on any of the bar stools. He tries not to feel disappointed about that.

Instead, he focuses on the clientele. There are only three women here. One of those is the barmaid.

_Maybe one of them is Babe._

Babe could easily be a man’s name, though.

There are maybe thirty men in the place. A few are eyeing Dean with suspicion. A fair few more are eyeing him with something else.

Dean makes a move towards a corner table, where he can sit in the shadows and wait. Maybe Babe will come to him and hand over the envelope.

But what if the wrong person comes over? Someone who isn’t interested in what they can give to Dean, but rather take. A lot of things could happen in one of these dark corners without anyone even noticing.

_Probably best to not take the risk._

Almost at the table, he changes direction and threads his way through several clumps of people, over to the bar, deciding that it’s better to be safe than sorry. He finds three empty barstools in a row, goes for the one in the middle and straddles it, trying his best not to look as out of place as he feels. His gun is tucked in his waistband again and he’s glad to have it. Though, if a fight broke out in this place, he doubts he’d be the only one with a firearm.  

The built-like-a-brick-shithouse bartender works his way towards Dean, wiping the dull counter with a towel. He smiles cordially at Dean. “What can I get for ya?”

“I’ll just have a beer, thanks. Whatever’s on tap.”

“Sure. You got any ID?”

Dean’s twenty-eight years young. He hasn’t been carded since he was about seventeen. The crappy fake he’d had back then – cobbled together with spit and optimism – evidently hadn’t been fooling anyone, but it hadn’t mattered.

Dean wishes it had.

It’s odd that he’s getting ID’d now though. The ‘prettiness’ of his teens had given way to what Dean likes think is rugged manliness, and as a result, he looks the age he is. Definitely not under twenty-one. However, he’s not about to start something over it, so, nodding with a smile, he reaches for his wallet and removes his driver’s license from its clear plastic sleeve. He shows it to the bartender, who squints at it and says, “Nice picture, dude.”

Dean grins. It’s probably the least flattering picture of anyone ever taken, but still.

When he returns with his mug of beer, the bartender says, “Want me to run you a tab, Dean?”

“Yeah. Good idea, thanks. You picked up my name from the license, huh?”

He sniffs. “Dean Winchester.”

“What’s your name?” Dean asks, taking a drink of beer. It’s cold, a little bitter and good.

“Glen.”

“Nice to meet you, Glen.” He means it. The guy seems alright. He’s got a tattoo of what looks like a raven on one of his oversized biceps. “You wouldn’t happen to know if maybe someone left an envelope here for me? It would have my name written on it.”

Glen shakes his head, heavy cheeks shimmying. “You hang on a minute and I’ll ask the help.” His gaze sways away from Dean and focuses on someone at the other end of the bar. He calls out, “Pamela!”

Dean swivels on his stool and sees the barmaid striding towards them, confident and cool. A pretty brunette with long hair, dressed in a Ramones t-shirt and tight dark jeans. She walks – struts – behind a loaded tray.

Stopping alongside Dean, she slides the tray onto the counter. “Why, hello there, handsome.”

“Meet Dean Winchester.” Glen says.

Pamela slants her eyes across at Dean, sultry smile curling at her lips, “How’s it hangin’ Dean Winchester?”

Dean figures that the old response of, ‘a little to the left’ would be inappropriate, so instead he says, “Okay. And you?”

“I’m just peachy. What can I do you for, Dean?”

“He’s looking for something,” Glen explains before Dean gets a chance to. “Do you know anything about somebody leaving an envelope here for him?”

Brow creased, Pamela turns back to Dean, “Who’d they give it to?”

“I don’t know,” Dean responds honestly, feeling stupid. To say that this was a longshot is kind of an understatement of epic proportions. “Look, don’t worry about it. I must have the wrong place.” He reaches for his wallet again, slapping down a five on the bar to cover the drink and a tip. “Sorry to waste your time.”

“Now, just wait a second,” Glen says, looking and sounding a little disappointed. “Don’t give up so easily. Maybe we can still help you find what you’re looking for?”

Dean shakes his head, managing a small genuine smile, “I doubt it.” Though, it probably won’t hurt to ask, might even save some time if they know something that he doesn’t. “I don’t suppose you know of any other places around here with Paradise in the name? Could just be a mix-up or a miscommunication about where I’m supposed to go.”

“There’s the bowling alley out on fifth.” Pamela replies after a moment’s consideration.

“Yeah, and the memorial park.” Glen adds with a nod. “Far as we know, that’s it.”

Dean sighs. Info he’s already got.

_Might as well go all in._

“How about places with Hell in the name?”

He gets an arched eyebrow from Pamela and a wide-eyed look from Glen.

“Nothing like that around here,” Pamela says, maybe a little defensive.

“Nope.” Glen agrees, then adds almost casually, offhand, “Though, there’s the Gateway to Hell.”

_Makes sense. If there’s a highway to Hell, surely there should be a gateway too._

Heh.

Pamela smacks Glen’s meaty arm with the back of her hand, quick and annoyed, “Now why’d you wanna go and say a thing like that?”

“The Gateway to Hell?” Dean asks, bewildered and maybe slightly concerned that this is some satanic shit. He didn’t sign up for demons and Lucifer rising and all that.

Glen ignores Pamela in favor of answering Dean. “Yeah. Stull Cemetery. A few miles out. It’s a local legend thing, you know.” At Dean’s confused look, he adds, “It’s supposed to be one of the seven gateways to Hell. The rumor is that there’s some hidden steps in the place. Leads directly to Hell.”

Well, that’s not creepy at all.

Trolls and bridges are one thing. Hell and graveyards are another.

_As if it really matters._

“It’s not actually a gateway to Hell, y’know.” Pamela stage whispers, apparently amused.

“Yeah.” Dean says, all faux-enthusiasm and cheer, “’Cause that’s just nutty.”

 

***

 

Dean must have a fetish for cashews because here he is, sitting in his car at – he checks his cell phone – forty-three minutes past midnight, outside a fucking gateway to Hell.

He’d like to say that he’s done crazier things, but that would be a lie. This is definitely top of the list.

From outside the wrought iron fence, it looks like a standard bone orchard; gentle slopes of grass, spindles of weeds twisting through the cracks of crumbling, crooked tombstones, monuments of saints and angels and children, vaults standing here and there like small chapels. Row upon row of storiesthat have ended, some before they ever really got started, others carrying on long after the main plot had played itself out.

_How very Poe._

He turns left at the corner and follows the two-lane driveway to the main gates. They’re wide, double gates of wrought iron beneath an archway of elaborate grillwork that reads Stull Cemetery. And of course, they’re closed.

Shut, and probably locked.

Not wanting to leave his Impala near the gates, he drives right past them. When he spots a thick cluster of trees to the right, he eases off the road and steers into their shadows.

As well as grabbing his gun and a newly purchased flashlight, he also elects to take his cell phone this time. He’s a lot further out of town than he’s entirely comfortable with and if anything goes wrong, he’d feel much safer not having to run back to his car to make a call.

Gun safely tucked down the back of his jeans, keys and cell in his pocket, and flashlight in hand, he cross the street and hurries back towards the main gates of the cemetery.

Thinking that J might have arranged to leave the gates unlocked, he tugs at them. They rattle slightly. They’re locked, but not with a chain and padlock, like the gates of the fence surrounding the KU art project. After studying them for a few moments, Dean decides that they can probably only be opened with a key or by remote control.

He won’t be getting in through the gates.

_Looks like you’ll be climbing._

The gates, topped by the arch of grillwork spelling out the cemetery’s name, would make a more difficult obstacle than the fence itself. But climbing the fence won’t be easy. Or safe. Each of the upright bars looks like an iron spear aimed at the sky.

Standing close to the fence, Dean can reach high enough to grab the uppermost crossbar. But the points are higher still. If he manages to find a perch on the cross bar – and then falls wrong – he might find himself impaled on the kind of eight inches that not even the bravest or kinkiest of bastards would enjoy.

_No. Just no._

He begins to walk through the grass and trees along the outside of the fence, searching for a less hazardous way to get in.

Beyond the bars is a fairly large parking lot, dim and gray in the moonlight. No cars at all are parked there, not even a hearse. Which probably means that the grounds are deserted: no visitors, no caretakers, no grave diggers, no guards, nobody.

_Which is excellent, if only you could get in._

After a few more minutes of exasperated searching, he finds the answer to his problem.

A tree branches out low and stretches a good thick limb over the tips of the fence.

Crouching near the trunk, Dean reaches between two of the iron bars and sets his flashlight and gun down on the grass. The air is more dense here, clogged with the smell of rotting leaves and damp earth.

Then he straightens back up and begins his climb.

The tree, with its easy angles and rough surface and plenty of good places for his hands and feet, is a pretty undemanding climb, giving him no trouble at all.

It’s a pleasant turn of events.

On his stomach, clutching the limb between his thighs, he squirms out beyond the spear points of the fence. When they are well behind him, he crawls to the underside of the branch, lets go of it with his legs, dangles by his arms, and allows himself to fall.

The ground jolts him, but not badly, giving some underneath his weight as he drops. He rolls with the impact and smoothly gets to his feet, pleased that for once things seem to be going his way. He comes up with the back of his shirt wet and clinging, but the dew doesn’t soak through his jeans.

He hurries back to the fence and picks up the gun – which he decides to carry – and the flashlight. Keeping it dark, he turns towards the cemetery. Cloud cover is hiding the moon for the moment, making the already spooky-as-fuck place even eerier and Dean isn’t sure if his insanity is a permanent thing and it’s just becoming obvious now, or whether it’s been sparked by this game.

It’s not like it matters one way or another; the end result is the same. It’d just be nice to know what to tell the shrink when he’s sectioned.

_Focus. Babe. Gotta find Babe._

The realistic option is that it’s the name on a headstone, but the cemetery is vast, stretching on for as far as he can see. He could be here all night checking.

If that’s what it takes.

With a heavy sigh, he hurries to the nearest grave. After a quick look around to make sure that he’s still alone, he shines his flashlight on the marble slab.

No Babe buried under this one.

Nor the next, nor the one after that.

_This can’t be right._

He aims the light at another tombstone. Nothing.

_There must be more to the clue, or this isn’t the right place. Again._

He keeps at it though. This _has_ to be the right place. There’s no other feasible option.

_Just go row by row, take it one step at a time. Should be able to cover the place in a few hours._

He moves quickly from grave to grave, stopping in front of each one, aiming his flashlight at every headstone, pushing the button to send a beam of light through the darkness, reading the name of the deceased, before killing the light and moving on.

The grass is long and wet and soaks through his shoes and socks.

Probably a bad choice to wear sneakers.

Dean had thought that he was being clever. Sneakers rather than boots in case he had to run away, but apparently not so much. It seems that no matter what, ‘J’ is always _at least_ one step ahead of him.

_What kind of bastard sends you to a graveyard in the middle of the goddamn night anyway?_

The same kind of bastard that also feeds him to trolls, apparently.

At least there’s little to no chance of that here. No self-respecting junkie is going to hang out with the dead.

Nope. Just Dean.

He’s seen far too many zombie movies for this not to be freaking him out just a little. The corpses beneath the ground, bodies in coffins – some of them so old that they’ve fallen apart, some of them nothing but bones, others in various stages of rot, some almost fresh – all around him. Nothing between him and them except a bit of dirt.

He wonders if they can feel his footsteps. If they’re lying there, motionless, listening to him approach, feeling his weight as he steps on them, angry at the disrespect.

_Cut that shit out. They’re dead. They don’t listen to or feel anything._

If he were here on a sunny afternoon, maybe with Castiel, he’d believe it, be certain of it. But this is the middle of the night and he’s alone with nothing except his imagination, and the distinct feeling that someone or something is watching him. The back of his neck prickles. He quickly checks over his right, then left, shoulder.

Of course, there’s no-one there.

_Pull yourself together. The quicker you get this done, the quicker you can go home._

He stops in front of another grave, shivering a little, plucking the damp of his shirt away from his skin, and shines the flashlight on the stone marker. This one, a thin slab, stands at a tilt in the tall grass. It’s so old and weathered that the inscription has been worn down. Only shallow valleys remain of the words and dates that had once been chiseled deep.

With a marker like this, there must be nothing left at all of the body.

_The chances of this being Babe…_

It doesn’t matter. Dean needs to check every single one. If it’s the only one he skips, it’ll certainly be the one he was looking for. That’s how his luck works.

So he sinks to a crouch in front of the tilted slab. He tucks the gun back into his waistband. Holding the flashlight in his right hand, he reaches out to the headstone with the left. He traces the first letter with a fingertip.

Might be a B. Possibly a P.

Next letter is promising; definitely feels like an A.

The one after that is a T.

_Fuck._

Withdrawing his hand and straightening back up, Dean turns around slowly, scanning the moonlit graveyard. He’s thankful that it’s a little brighter, even if just for the moment.

Though he’s aware of having wandered quite far from the tree where he’d entered the cemetery, he’s surprised to discover that the parking lot and fence are no longer in sight. He’s apparently roamed quite a distance while studying the names on the tombstones.

Off to his left, through the trees, he can see a small part of the roof of the old church by the edge of the graveyard.

Which means that the parking lot and front gate should be behind him. He turns around and finds himself looking at the slope of a low hillside.

Dean scrubs a hand over his face. He’s tired. He wants to go home. He reaches into his pocket for his cell, tapping the on/off button to check the time.

Ten after two.

Four missed calls from Castiel.

“Shit,” He mutters.

He’s not in until noon tomorrow. The part-timer, Bela, is covering the morning and part of the afternoon shift, so Dean can get away with sleeping as late as eleven, if he has to.

He’ll call Castiel as soon as he has something to report. Maybe he should send a quick text though, just to assuage any concerns. It’s not fair to keep him awake and worrying, not when he has to be up for class.

Typing on his phone with one hand, flashlight in the other, Dean checks out the next tombstone. It has a bunch of fresh flowers on it. Roses, it looks like. Red ones.

He had always assumed that lilies or irises were the normal graveside flowers.

He sweeps the beam up over the flowers and across the stone. It takes a second for his eyes to register what they’re seeing, but then Dean’s quietly muttering, “Finally, jeez,” and trying not to whoop with joy.

Babe. It says Babe.

He rushes forward, kneeling down in the grass, hastily sending the text and shoving the phone back in his pocket. He picks up the flowers, inspecting the patterned wrapping. There’s a rectangular envelope taped to it. It’s a little damp from the dew of the grass; the ‘E’ and ‘N’ of his name a bit smudged, letters gone spidery with the moisture, but otherwise intact.

_Fuck yeah._

“Gotcha.”

Well this was definitely easier – not less creepy though – than the last task, so at least that’s something. He’s got the envelope, money, and all without a scratch.

The boneyard bit hasn’t exactly been pleasant, but compared to the previous night’s excursion it’s been a walk in the… graveyard?

He’s so preoccupied with ripping the note from the cellophane binding the roses that he doesn’t hear the faint rustling sound, nor the quiet, dull thud of boots on the earth, indicators of movement from behind him.

At least not until it’s too late.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

_Fuck._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, I'm so sorry that this update has taken me longer than I initially stated. Hopefully it makes up for the long wait.  
> Again, thank you for your wonderful comments guys. I appreciate all of them.  
> Also. Normal service has resumed. Next chapter should be up Monday, the one after that on Thursday and so forth. Thanks for your patience everyone :).

It’s shortly after four a.m. when Dean finally gets home. He knows this because just as he’s staggering through the front door, his cell rings.

There’s only one person who it’s gonna be.

He digs the phone out of his pocket and swipes his thumb across the screen, “’Lo?”

“Dean? Are you okay? Where are you?” Dean has answers at the ready for all three of these questions, but Castiel doesn’t give him time, simply barrels on, “It’s gone four and you said you’d phone when you got home and –”

“I was just about to phone you, Cas.” Despite everything that’s happened tonight, Castiel’s voice is like a soothing balm on Dean’s frayed nerves.

“– anything could have happened to you…“ He trails off and Dean wonders if he’s gearing up for more or processing what Dean’s words mean. “Wait. You’ve only just got home?”

Ah, so the latter then.

“Yeah. Like right this instant.” To illustrate the point, Dean shuts the door a little harder than necessary, locking it and sliding the chain across.

“Oh… So things didn’t go to plan then?”

“Not unless the plan was me getting attacked in a graveyard, no.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, followed by a pause, like Castiel isn’t sure which part of the sentence to deal with first. He opts for the relative safety of, “Are you okay?”

“I’m not sure.” Dean admits. He’s not had a chance to check himself over yet, but he’s pretty certain that he’s torn something in his left leg, and there’s the itch of dried blood on his right cheek. It could be a lot worse, he knows, but he still feels miserable about it.

“Fuck. What happened?”

Dean empties his pockets out onto the coffee table. “I went to the Paradise Lounge, like we talked about. No J or envelope there, but I did get some information from the bartender.” He gingerly sits down on the edge of the couch and sandwiches his phone between his ear and shoulder as he uses his hands to remove his shoes. “Apparently there’s a gateway to Hell in Stull Cemetery? So I went there. Figured it’d be worth a shot.”

Sneakers off, he cautiously settles back into the couch cushions, wary of a sharp pulling sensation from a probable wound just below his ribs. He takes a hold of his phone again. “I spent a while searching for a ‘Babe’. I was in the middle of texting you back when I found the right gravestone.”

“That was hours ago.”

“Yeah, well. That’s when shit hit the fan. I got the envelope off a bunch of red roses. And then there’s someone behind me. I mean, I’d checked repeatedly that there was no-one else around, so the guy must have been a fucking master of stealth or something.”

“What happened?”

“He asked me what the fuck I thought I was doing, and then he was accusing me of all kinds of stuff. Breaking and entering, grave desecration, being a Satanist, even called me a filthy fucking pervert and told me that necrophilia was illegal in this state.” Dean lets out a nervous laugh, ‘cause yeah, it may sound funny now, but the dude had a least a hundred pounds on him and was clearly not quite _right_. There had been no telling what he might do. “So I tried to calm him down. Explained what I was doing without making it sound weird. I didn’t go into details, just said that my friend was buried here and I was visiting at half two in the morning because I was leaving the town for good and had a flight to catch, but I’d wanted to say goodbye.”

Castiel doesn’t need to say anything. Dean already knows how crazy this whole thing is and he’s barely even started yet.

“The guy seemed to calm down after that.” Dean says. “I thought I was in the clear, but then all of a sudden he’s got a knife and he’s making a move towards me. He managed to get a decent cut in on my forearm before I realized what had happened.”

“Shit,” Castiel mutters breathlessly. “Is it deep? Do you need stitches?”

Dean forces himself to look at his arm. It’s still tacky with blood from about half-way up to his elbow, all the way down to his wrist. It looks worse than it is, but it’s still pretty bad. It’ll probably scar.

“I don’t think so. Probably just need to clean up.”

Castiel sighs. Sensing a lecture on the horizon, Dean quickly jumps in again, “It’s nothing Cas, honest. Just a little nick.” It’s a miracle that his brain-to-mouth filter is working well enough to prevent him from making a Monty Python related joke. His eyes flick up to the blood-smeared envelope on the coffee table. Leaning forward, he picks it up and empties out the contents. One of the hundreds flitters to the floor by his foot, but Dean leaves it there for now. By his count, including tonight’s haul, he should have thirteen hundred and fifty dollars.

Not bad for three nights’ work.

_It is when you’re getting punched and stabbed._

“Dean?” Castiel prompts, concern creeping in at the edges of his tone. “What happened then?”

“Well, I tried reasoning with the guy, but there’s just no getting through to some people –“ _Understatement._ “– So I tried to run. He blocked me and went for me again, I caught a blow to the stomach, but I managed to get away mostly unscathed.” He’s not really sure how to tell Castiel the next part, so he just decides the best route is to get it over quickly, like ripping off a band aid. “I shot him.”

Only empty sounds come from Castiel’s end of the phone.

In the face of Castiel’s muteness, Dean hastens to add, “Only in the leg. Or more specifically the knee. So he couldn’t chase me. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, y’know?”

“…Holy shit, Dean.”

“Yeah.” Because that really does sum it up.

“You could have been killed.”

“But I wasn’t. I’m fine. Mostly.”

After a few seconds of silence, Castiel says, “I don’t like the way this is going.”

“ _I’m_ not exactly thrilled.”

“I mean, it’s one thing when he’s sending you to find money in a book. Even maybe the carousel thing was acceptable, but then he has you fighting drug addicts under bridges and people in graveyards?”

“I don’t think he put either the junkies or the weirdo there.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But he put _you_ there. It’s getting worse and worse. He’s escalating on you.”

“Well, the stakes are getting higher and higher.” Dean says, like the ends justify the means. There’s a voice in his head checking off all the reasons why that’s total bullshit, but he ignores it.

“If he’ll put a guy with a knife between you and your money, what else do you think he’ll do, hmm? Maybe next time it’ll be some lunatic with a chainsaw, or you’ll have to kill someone to get out alive.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Dean says without conviction, because out of the two of them, it’s not Castiel who’s just kneecapped someone for eight hundred dollars.

“Am I?” Castiel fires back, heated and frustrated. “Because if you keep up with this, then you may end up on a path that you’re not ready to deal with. The money may seem good now, but look at what you’ve gone through to get it –“

Dean’s voice is low and tight and laced with the kind of helpless anger that he can’t even begin to expect Castiel to understand, “I know _exactly_ what I’ve gone through.”

That kills the conversation. A few seconds of silence ticks by, neither side willing to back down. Finally Castiel lets out a heavy sigh and then says in a softer, calmer voice, “I just don’t want you hurt, Dean. I don’t want to lose you now that I finally have you.”

Well, fuck. It’s not like Dean can really say anything snide or shitty to that.

In an uncharacteristic show of nerve, Dean says, “You could always come over and check me over yourself. Y’know, if it would appease your worries. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have any objections to that.” He tries for nonchalant, but the slight quiver in his voice means that it falls somewhat short of the mark. It’s been three days. He shouldn’t be this desperate for the company of someone he barely knows, but he is. And if Castiel’s words and actions are to be believed, then he craves Dean just as much.

There’s the beginnings of a smirk in Castiel’s voice, teasing and flirty, when he says, “Dean. Do _you_ want me to come over?”

Dean closes his eyes, thinks of the strong body he’d felt beneath him when they’d made out like teenagers the night before, the blue eyes that seem to see right into Dean’s soul, the way Castiel makes him feel safe and cared for.

Really, it’s a no-brainer.

“God, yes.”

 

***

 

Dean takes a long, hot shower. The scalding water highlights his aching muscles and makes the wounds and cuts sting. Just as he’s stepping out of the tub, the doorbell rings and he’s throwing on his gray robe and rushing down the stairs, belting it up as he goes.

He flings open the door, trying not to wince at the painful twist in his sore leg.

“Dean.” Standing on the stoop, hair delightfully mussed and bleary eyed in an old faded AC/DC shirt and tatty jeans, Castiel looks like everything that Dean has ever wanted. His presence is simultaneously calming and exhilarating and Dean isn’t quite sure how to play this. He desperately wants to be cool and collected, but that’s just not him – not in this life at least – and so he smiles like a dork on a first date and resists the urge to drag Castiel inside by the loose neck of his t-shirt.

“Hey Cas.”

Castiel steps inside, crowding way too close, like personal space is only a concept that lesser beings adhere to. He reaches up to cup Dean’s face, thumb gently stroking over the cut on his cheek. Dean relaxes into the touch, pushing his face into the warmth of Castiel’s palm like an affection-starved cat.

“I was so worried about you Dean.”

“I’m sorry for making you worry.” Dean murmurs, eyes closed. His apology is genuine, though he’s not sorry that he went.

He hears Castiel sigh, and then the hand is removed. Dean fights the urge to chase it.

“Come on, let’s get you upstairs. Have you put anything on your cuts yet? Antiseptic?”

Dean shakes his head.

“Okay.” Castiel shuts and locks the door behind him and steers Dean towards the stairs. “Let me take care of you.”

A new, warm feeling unfurls in Dean’s stomach. He swallows hard, overwhelmed by Castiel’s proximity, his genuine affection, the way he places a gentle hand in the dip of Dean’s spine, not pushing, just quietly guiding.

It’s so much more than he’s ever believed that he deserves.

When they reach the top of the stairs, Castiel presses a chaste kiss to Dean’s cheek. “I’m just going to get some supplies, I’ll be right back.”

Dean switches on the light and wanders into the bedroom, sitting down on the corner of his bed and clamping his hands between his knees, feeling more than a little nervous. It’s one thing to have a cuddle on the couch, but another entirely for Castiel to spend the night patching Dean up. Especially as it could be argued – and nobody has earned the right more than Cas – that the wounds are kind of self-inflicted. Or at the very least brought about by his own actions.

When Castiel returns, he’s carrying some cotton balls, a bottle of antiseptic – both from Dean’s bathroom cabinet – as well as a couple packets of self-adhesive dressing that he must have brought with him. Which is kind of sweet. He sets them all down on the nightstand.

“Take off your robe.” Castiel says, voice soft and low.

After a beat, Dean obeys, removing it and discarding it in a heap on the floor. For the second time in as many nights, he’s naked in front of a clothed Castiel. His cheeks feel hot with embarrassment and desire, but when Castiel looks at him, lips parted, pupils wide and dark, the desire begins to win out.

“You’re so beautiful.” Castiel tells him, sincere and intense. Painfully so, and it hits Dean like an ice-pick to the heart, cutting deeper than any physical wound he has ever sustained.

It’s not the first time that Castiel has said it. But it _is_ the first time that Dean considers that maybe, just _maybe_ Castiel actually means it, and isn’t saying it as the precursor to something nefarious or to get Dean into bed.

Dean isn’t really sure what to do with the information, scrabbling for words, but finding only inadequacies, “Um… thank – thank you, Cas. I guess? I – I don’t really know what to say.”

Castiel’s expression is pained for a split second, before it evens out into a neutral smile. “This will probably be easier if you lie down.”

This is not how Dean imagined his first vaguely sexual experience with Castiel would be. Even so, he complies without comment, sliding around the unmade sheets until his head is on the pillow, watching Castiel watch him, nervous and a little apprehensive, but mostly turned on.

Castiel stares for a moment longer, eyes cataloging every visible inch of Dean’s skin. He comes over and sits partway down the bed, next to Dean’s hip, bringing one leg up so that he can sit facing Dean.

“This is a hardly a ‘little nick’, now is it?” He gestures to the slash on Dean’s forearm.

So yeah, maybe now that the blood is all gone and Dean can see it properly, it’s kinda bad. It’s all jagged and red and angry and at the first touch of chilly liquid to the deep cut, Dean flinches. It’s cold and it stings and fuzzes and burns. Castiel gives him an apologetic half-smile, then sets about cleaning and bandaging the wound, being as gentle and conscientious as possible.

“’Tis but a scratch.” Dean murmurs, grinning when Castiel laughs softly.

There’s an intimacy to this that tears Dean open, jagged and raw, slicing right down to the bone, leaving him feeling more vulnerable and exposed than he’s allowed himself to be in the presence of another human being for as long as he can remember.

It makes him want to shy away, to run and hide, but there’s nowhere for him to go anymore. Nowhere that he’d rather be.

_You’re done with running anyway. You said so yourself._

Instead, Dean contents himself with staring unashamedly at Castiel while he works, because seriously _, who the fuck wouldn’t?_ The professor is the beautiful one out of the two of them and Dean doesn’t really know what he’s done to deserve someone who not only looks like the embodiment of perfection, but also reads Bukowski and listens to classic rock and actually gives a shit about Dean beyond the physical element, but he sure as shit is glad he did it.

There’s a part of him that wonders if this is some kind of fever dream, or that he’s in a coma again.

If that’s the case, Dean is content to never wake up.

Done with that particular cut, Castiel takes out a fresh ball of cotton. He soaks it in the hydrogen peroxide and starts dabbing at Dean’s other injuries; the scratches and nicks that Dean seems to have all over his body.

When it stings an abrasion on his stomach, Dean gasps and stiffens.

“Sorry.” Castiel murmurs, eyes on Dean’s face, pressing one of the self-adhesive bandages over the wound.

“’S’ok.” Dean manages a tight smile, “A little pain is good for the soul.”

Frowning, Castiel says, “I’m not so sure about that. I’d rather be causing you pleasure than pain.” Then, with a fresh, dripping cotton ball, he gently swabs Dean’s right nipple. The chilly fluid makes it pucker and jut out.

Dean groans through gritted teeth. His dick twitches to life against his thigh.

Of course, nothing escapes Castiel’s notice, and he simply smiles – the bastard – and does the same thing to Dean’s other nipple, already sensitive with anticipation.

“How is that fair?” Dean asks on a shivery inhale.

“I ask myself that every time I look at you.”

It’s incredibly sappy, saccharine sweet and Dean blushes all the way to the roots of his hair. In the wake of it, both are them quiet. Castiel replaces the supplies on the nightstand, before turning to look at Dean, familiar heat behind blue eyes.

“Dean can I…”

Swallowing down the sudden lump in his throat, Dean nods eagerly, needing Castiel more than his next breath. It doesn’t matter that it’s been three days. It doesn’t matter that Dean is damaged goods. All that matters is that Castiel wants him.

He doesn’t get the chance to doubt that last one either, because without pause Castiel is tugging his band shirt up and over his head, before moving to unbutton his jeans, tucking his thumbs in the waistband and sliding the fabric down his legs along with his plain black boxers.

Dean watches, eyes never leaving Castiel, willing himself to not even blink for fear that he might miss something, _anything_. His gaze lingers over the newly exposed cut of Castiel’s hipbones, the expanse of lithe muscle, the smooth tanned skin.

Castiel is gorgeous. And Dean is more than a little intimidated.

Now as naked as Dean, Cas lifts one knee onto the mattress, dipping it with his weight. He moves over Dean, carefully blanketing him with his body, molding them together, bare skin against bare skin, except where the pad of Dean’s bandage makes a soft barrier between their stomachs. It hurts a little, but certainly not enough to make him care or stop this from happening.

Castiel leans down, sinking his teeth into the meat of Dean’s shoulder, sucking a possessive bruise into the skin there, and Dean’s hands move of their own accord, fitting to the curve of Castiel’s ass, skin smooth and firm beneath his palms, tugging their hips tight together, brutal and forceful.

Desperately, they hump against each other, Dean rocking his hips up as Cas grinds down, eliciting identical moans from them both.

“Lube?” Castiel asks, breathless, urgent with dirty-hot want, and clearly as turned on as Dean is, hardness of his erection digging into Dean’s hip.

“Bottom drawer.”

Castiel pushes away, sitting up on weak knees, reaching down to yank the drawer open and retrieve the small bottle of lube that Dean keeps hidden in case of sex-related emergencies.

Not that he’s had any of those since he moved to Lawrence.

Dean lets out a needy sob when Castiel traces slippery chilly fingers down to his hole, gently pushing one lube-slicked finger slowly inside, leaning down and running his tongue along the skin of Dean’s hipbone, a cruel tease.

“Dean,” The one word is whispered like a prayer, exhaled over the spit-damp patch of Dean’s skin, making him shiver. Another finger is added alongside the first and Dean arches his back on a low moan, whole body twisting in a wordless plea for more. It’s good. So so good and he wants to beg for it, plead for Castiel to have mercy and just fuck him already.

On the very rare occasion in the past when a conquest has been this careful and deliberate, Dean has taken it as them treating him like he’s fragile. Like they’ve seen just how broken he is and are reacting accordingly. But not with Cas. With Cas it feels like comfort and genuine care, not some shitty facsimile of it so that he can get laid and then never speak to Dean again. It feels like everything that Dean knows he doesn’t deserve, isn’t worthy of, but has always wanted just the same.

An impossible aspiration. One that Dean was content with never becoming a reality.

But now. Now he’s not so sure that he’ll be able to live without this. It’s only been three fucking days, but Castiel is making him feel things that it took him a lifetime to get over not having.

Castiel kisses across Dean’s ribs and hips as he opens him up, all slow and sensual – and possibly the single most erotic thing that Dean has ever experienced – until Dean whimpers, throat dry and tight, “Cas, _please_.” And that’s it. Apparently done with patience and tenderness, Castiel grabs him by the back of his knees and hauls Dean into his lap, splaying his legs between Dean’s thighs, pushing them wide. After hurriedly slicking his cock with the remaining lube, he lines himself up and sinks into Dean in one smooth thrust, making them both cry out, startled and shaking from the intensity.

It’s like pins and needles. It’s pain mixed with so much pleasure that Dean isn’t even sure where one ends and the other begins.

They’re both tense and trembling, panting and gasping as Castiel rocks forward, drags out, pulling to the rim, and then slams back in, forcing a strangled moan from Dean’s throat. Dean wraps his legs tight around Castiel’s waist, body arching instinctively into the feeling of Castiel inside him, angle awkward, but no less in-fucking-credible.

“So good for me, Dean.” Castiel murmurs, voice wrecked and pitched low as he drives into him, faster and harder, hips finding a punishing rhythm that has Dean crying out wordless and fevered as his muscles wind themselves into knots and sweat pricks at the base of his neck. “So fucking perfect.”

Dean bites out a harsh, “Fuck, Cas,” on a broken moan, his mouth slack as he throws his head back into the pillows, spine bowed and hips shoving and grinding down against Castiel, trying to take him as deep as possible.

Castiel is everywhere, all over him. Inside and out. Possessive hands manhandle Dean, fingertips pressing bruises into Dean’s hips and ass, nails cutting crescents into his flesh, adding to the mess of grazes and wounds, but it’s totally different, because Dean wants these, wants Cas to mark him up, show the world that he _willingly_ belongs to someone. 

Castiel shoves in deeper, looking down at where their bodies are joined, watching himself disappear into Dean’s body and Dean’s face heats up, both embarrassed and turned on at the thought of being so exposed. “So good for me, Dean.” Castiel repeats, a time-delayed echo of himself. “Want you all the fucking time. You’re mine. Made for this. Made for _me_.”

In lieu of a proper answer Dean moans, delirious, toes curled up tight enough to make his calves ache. So good. It’s so fucking good. His eyes are blurry and hot, every muscle in his body aching and tense, strung out and sweating, senses totally overloaded. Cas is fucking into him like an animal, relentless and feral, eyes black and now focused on Dean’s with an intensity that has him struggling to pull more air into his lungs.

He’s close to not only his orgasm, but also to losing his mind, with the way that deceptively strong, firm body drives into him over and over again, fucking the breath right out of him and Dean had never thought that sex could be like this; so desperate and wild, yet controlled and precise.

Castiel moves forward, holding himself over Dean on his hands in a half push-up, not wanting to bear down on Dean’s wounds, and ducks his head, kissing him sloppily as he fucks him, mouth hot and wet against Dean’s, “Need to see you come Dean, need to see you fall apart for me.”

Dean scrapes out a wrecked, “Cas,” honest and raw and almost painful. He’s _so close_ , the orgasm right there, under his skin, just out of his reach. And then then Castiel pulls back again, wrapping a strong, tight hand around Dean’s cock, driving him wild, sweet long pulls alternating with fast flawless strokes.

_“Come for me, Dean.”_

And that’s it. With a choked-off sound, Dean is coming, stomach muscles seizing, heat spreading through his veins like wildfire. He has to shout himself through it, voice hitched on something close to a scream as his orgasm intensifies, because Castiel is still pounding into him, refusing to stop or even slow down and Dean has never felt anything even close to this in his entire damn life.

Castiel leans back on his heels, beautiful arc of his spine, head tipped back as he thrusts into Dean. Once; twice. And then he’s coming too, hot and sloppy inside Dean, hips still moving in abortive little movements as he fucks Dean through both their orgasms.

Even though Dean’s thighs are burning, he’s covered in his own come, and when Castiel pulls out, he feels the sticky trickle of spunk that leaks out and soaks into his sheets, Dean has never felt so happy, so utterly content. It fills the hollow ache behind his rib cage and makes him dare to hope that things can be different.

He may not be quite at the stage where he believes that he _deserves_ different, but that’s another issue for another day, and after Castiel cleans them both up as best he can with his t-shirt, Dean snuggles in close, breathing in his scent, and lets himself imagine an alternate reality where he’s not such a massive pile of neuroses and insecurities. Where he deserves someone like Castiel.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummm, there's nothing to really say about this chapter, except for... good luck? I guess.
> 
> Nah, it's not that bad.

Dean’s day at the Lawrence public library is marked by all that doesn’t happen.

Bela doesn’t comment when Dean rolls in over half an hour late, limping a little and covered in bruises. Not that she could really say much. During Dean’s first week here, she’d turned up to work still high on something and only partially dressed.

Castiel doesn’t show up at any point, despite Dean’s silly hope that he will. Which is only a tiny bit pathetic ‘cause it’s barely been a few hours since Castiel kissed him goodbye, promising firmly to meet up with Dean for dinner.

He doesn’t see Dorothy either, even though she’s aware that there’s a new shipment of Poirot books due in today.

He doesn’t speak to his brother. At half five, he misses the call. There’s no voicemail left, so Dean can only assume that Sam has called to chat, rather than it being a life or death situation.

When it comes to closing time, he doesn’t hesitate on his way upstairs.

All alone in the gloom of the stacks, he doesn’t feel afraid.

 

***

 

On his way home from work, Dean stops at the drive-thru window of a Jack in the Box and orders a couple of the Jumbo Jacks with fries. Castiel texts him, just as Dean’s driving up to the collection window, saying that he’s on his way over.

Dean absolutely does not grin like an idiot.

When he pulls onto his street, Castiel’s Ford is already parked outside Dean’s house. It’s domestic and normal and it makes Dean feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Apparently it’s not a feeling reserved only for those in rom-coms.

By the time he cuts the engine of his Impala, Castiel is there, opening the door for him like the best looking valet that Dean has ever seen, immaculately dressed down in jeans and dark blue shirt.

Climbing out of the car, Jack in a Box bag clutched in one hand, he slides his other around the back of Castiel’s neck, toying with the shorter hairs there, pulling him into a deliberate, unhurried, sensual kiss that is toe-curlingly hot and comforting at the same time.

Dean’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to get enough of this. Of Castiel.

“Good evening, Dean.” Castiel murmurs, when they pull apart, eyebrow quirked in amusement. Dean shuts and locks his car door. “I’m glad to see you too.”

Dean can feel the beginnings of a blush staining his cheeks. He isn’t usually this forward, but it had just felt like the natural thing to do. _Everything_ about Castiel feels like the natural thing. Nothing is difficult. Even their extremely brief ‘argument’ – if it could be called that – last night, had been resolved by Castiel calmly explaining his concerns. There was no angsty period where Dean didn’t know where he stood. In fact, Castiel has made his feelings about Dean pretty clear from day one.

_There’s not much room for ambiguity when someone kisses you like that after a couple of hours._

And even if Dean still hadn’t been sure, there’s no way that the deal wasn’t cemented last night. What with the care and bandaging and life-affirming sex.

He reflexively goes to say sorry anyway – maybe it was a bit much, a bit too familiar, considering this _is_ only the fourth day – but apparently sensing it, Castiel presses his index finger to Dean’s lips and says, “Don’t you _dare_ apologize.”

Dean tries to hide his smile. Without much success. “Okay, sir.” He says, sucking the digit into his mouth, incisor scraping over the soft pad of Castiel’s finger.

Castiel almost _growls_ and his eyes darken in that now-familiar way. He jerks his hand away from Dean’s mouth like he’s been… well _, like he’s been bitten_. “Dean. Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

It bolsters Dean’s self-esteem no end to see the effect that he has on someone usually as well put together as Cas. The way he looks at Dean when he thinks Dean doesn’t see him. The way Dean feels like he’s worth something in Castiel’s eyes.

It’s nice to be the center of someone’s world for a change, rather than just standing off to the side like a ditched prom date.

“Who says I can’t finish it?” It’s an attempt at playful and flirty, but Castiel’s intense expression doesn’t change. He simply tilts his head and stares _into_ Dean, studying him.

A beat of silence passes. Two. Three.

Dean clears his throat, feeling awkward and out of his depth, “Hey, come on,” he says, angling his head towards the house, “wanna go in and demolish these burgers?”

The mention of food seems to shake Castiel out of whatever headspace he was in and he tosses Dean a devastating grin, before kissing him again, “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

_Jesus._

Once inside the house, Dean makes a beeline for the kitchen, leaving the burgers with Castiel. He doesn’t bother turning the light on. Instead he stands there in the darkness, staring at nothing for a moment or two, just trying to regulate his breathing.

_Holy shit. What the fuck was that outside?_

He doesn’t have a good answer, besides _fucking hot_ and _maybe a little weird_.

Which sums up their relationship so far, rather eloquently.

Taking a deep, calming breath, he grabs two beers out of the refrigerator and twists off the caps, before re-joining Castiel in the living room, squeezing down next to him on the couch.

In the time Dean was in the kitchen, Castiel has switched on the TV. Dean picks up the remote off the coffee table and asks, “Any requests?”

Reaching into the takeaway bag, Castiel shakes his head. So Dean leaves it on the news channel for now. It’s only background noise.

Castiel passes him his food and Dean smiles his thanks.

“Oh, I’d better phone my brother,” Dean mentions, almost offhand as he unwraps his burger. “I missed a call from him today.”

“Okay. I’ll make sure to remind you.”

They’re mostly silent as they eat, swapping a couple of comments on the state of the world. It’s pleasant and easy and Dean is happy. There’s a part of him – right at the back of his mind – where he wonders when the other shoe will drop, but that way lies paranoia and madness – neither of which are particularly enticing traits – so Dean endeavors to remain positive and just enjoy the here and now.

Done with his meal, Castiel leans back against the cushions with a satisfied groan. “So, what are you going to do with your night off?”

This morning, they’d woken up together in Dean’s unmade sheets, a tangle of limbs and morning breath. Neither of which had stopped Castiel from kissing Dean soundly before declaring that it was time for breakfast. Whilst they ate bacon and pancakes – cooked expertly by Castiel – and drank copious amounts of coffee, they’d looked at the next note. Which had declared tonight an official ‘resting night’ as J appreciated that Dean needs his ‘beauty sleep’.

Dean had been thankful, if a little put out.

The note assures that Dean will resume his activities tomorrow night ‘when all the world sleeps’. Which Dean interprets as the usual time of midnight, since ‘just at midnight, when all the world slept’ is a line from The Tell-Tale Heart. It also said that Dean would need to decide if, ‘an eye for an eye really does make the whole world blind,’ before going on to say that his answer would be put into practice at, ‘a modern day Charon’s Gate, where souls recount their chilling tales whilst their fates are decided.’

Which totally isn’t creepy at all.

Well, whatever. There’s plenty of time to decipher J’s ridiculous argot, and Dean doesn’t really want to think about it too hard. Right now he’s full and content and spread out on the couch next to Castiel. Life is pretty good.

“Sleep?” Dean says flippantly, though despite the low simmer in his veins at his close proximity to Castiel and therefore awesome sex, the need for sleep is currently outrunning his desire to be fucked into the mattress two nights in a row.

Which really says a lot about how tired he is.

“Sleep if you want to, Dean.” Castiel offers with a soft smile. “You’re safe with me.”

Dean doesn’t doubt it. Not even for a second.

As he’s dozing off, he hears the ten o’clock news start up. He can’t be sure if he’s dreaming or not when a newsreader explains that a widow by the name of Dorothy Wilton was found dead in her apartment of a suspected heart attack.

 

***

 

“Dean.”

There are warm hands on him, firmly holding him by the shoulders. There’s no violence there. Not towards Dean at least, but they’re good strong hands. Hands that were all over him last night. In a good way. Not an abusive way. Always guiding, never forcing.

Deans groans, shifting his weight.

“Dean, wake up. You need to phone Sam.”

The voice is right. He does need to phone Sammy. He should have done it earlier, but he was too tired. So tired. His mind is groggy as he slowly comes around and croaks out a rough approximation of, “What time is it?” that probably more closely resembles, ‘imeisit.’

Seemingly Castiel understands anyway. “It’s just after eleven here. So it’ll be nine in California.” His voice is kind and full of affection and it makes Dean smile, even though he’s been awoken from some much needed sleep.

“Okay. You’re right.” He pushes himself up so that he’s sitting on the edge of the couch. He’s just reaching for his phone when something in the back of his mind clicks. Something that he’s heard when he wasn’t really listening…

Sam. Castiel called Dean’s brother, Sam. Which is his name, yes. But how does Cas know that? Dean spools back through all their conversations, everything they’ve ever said to one another. Not once has Dean ever mentioned his brother’s name, and for that matter where he _lives_.

Holy fuck.

He must have. There must be some conversation at some point over the last four days that Dean has mentioned his brother Sam who lives in California. It’s easily said. Could have just slipped out in normal every day conversation.

Except it hasn’t.

Aiming for casual, Dean turns a little to look at Castiel out of the corner of his eye, asks, “When did I tell you about Sammy?” He forces a small laugh, “I totally don’t remember, man.”

“The other night?” Castiel says, looking genuinely confused. “You don’t remember? I was over by the window looking at Sam’s graduation picture. You told me then that he’d studied law at Stanford and decided to stay in California. You seemed really proud.”

Dean tries to remember, he really does. But he simply _doesn’t_.

But he must have done.

Castiel smiles warmly, eyes crinkling up at the corners, looking unfairly handsome, “I assure you Dean, you did. How else would I know?”

Which is the question to end all others.

Castiel continues, “It was the night before you went off to the bridge. We had pizza, I extolled the romantic virtues of The Abominable Dr. Phibes…” He trails off, looking at Dean expectantly, as if the penny will drop any minute, and Dean will click his fingers and agree and declare himself a dumbass for failing to recall.

Except, Dean remembers all of that. He even remembers that the pizza was pretty disappointing because there wasn’t enough pepperoni on his half, but that it hadn’t mattered, because Castiel had been looking at him like he was absolutely everything.

He’s still drawing a blank about the Sam thing though.

He shakes his head, “I’m not remembering, Cas.” He just about stops himself from tacking a reflexive, “I’m sorry,” on the end.

Castiel’s brow creases in concern. He moves closer to Dean, invading his space, crowding in, making it hard for Dean to think properly, “That’s odd. Have you been having any other lapses in memory?

_No._ “No.”

Castiel hums thoughtfully, “Do you remember when we met?”

As if Dean could ever forget.

He fights hard not to blush at the memory. “Yes I remember how we met, Cas. It’s only a few days ago. I’m not _that_ bad.”

He’s not.

“Humor me.”

Dean sighs and rubs at the back of his neck, a bit embarrassed, “Okay… ummm, Dorothy dropped Endless Night. You bent over to get it for her. I humiliated myself when I made a terrible innuendo. Accidentally, I might add.”

“Ah yes. For which you still owe me drinks.”

Dean loosely gestures to the two empties on the coffee table. “I’m pretty sure you’ve had more than four by now.”

Castiel smiles affably, blue eyes shining with mirth. “I didn’t say what kind of drink. Perhaps I want a glitzy cocktail.”

In spite of himself, Dean splutters out a laugh. “Didn’t have you down as the type, professor.”

“There’s lots you don’t know about me. Though, there’s a fair few things you do, too. Like when you told me about Sam, I mentioned my own brother Gabriel. Do you remember that?”

Dean doesn’t. And he feels kind of terrible about it. Miserably, he shakes his head. “No,” he admits, a little ashamed. “Tell me about him now?”

“It’s nothing particularly interesting. He’s my older brother by about four years. He’s currently working as a stripper in Vegas, but his jobs change almost as regularly as his sexuality. Last week he called me during a class to tell me that he was getting married to a showgirl called Jewell. I also have a younger sister called Anna – well Anael – who is a hotshot Editor in New York. She’s rather sensible by comparison.”

“A family full of angels.” Dean murmurs without thinking.

Castiel smiles knowingly, like he gets that all the time. He probably does. “Apparently so.”

“Did I make that cheesy comment the other night too?” Dean asks, kind of scared of the answer.

“You did. Then you asked me how often the whole ‘did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?’ pick-up line gets used.”

That certainly _sounds_ like something Dean would say.

Maybe he is wrong then. It wouldn’t be the first time.

A familiar, insidious voice tells him that he forgets shit all the time. That the other day he forgot to put a book aside for old Mrs Lindman. That Castiel couldn’t be wrong about this, when Dean’s the one who is just plain _wrong_.

At any rate, it’s definitely nothing to stop trusting Castiel over. Not when he’s been so good to Dean. It’s entirely possible that Dean had been so messed up about the whole stranger-breaking-into-his-house-thing that his mind hadn’t been all there.

In fact, that sounds like a rather probable explanation.

Dean manages a wobbly smile, “So what do you say to people who ask you that?”

“Hmm?”

“’Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?’”

Castiel smiles, sly and wicked, “No more than it hurt Lucifer.”

***

 

To give Dean a bit of privacy on the phone with his brother, Cas goes to have a shower. Dean really wants to join him, but he should connect with Sam. It’s been a while.

_Make it quick – it’s late, both here and there. Then you can join Cas._

Seems fair. Best of both worlds and all that.

He scrolls through his phone – not that he has many contacts; definitely not many regular ones – until he gets to his brother.

As he listens to it ringing, he begins to think that it’s a bad idea phoning Sam back at such a late hour. He’s probably not long home from work after a long day putting criminals behind bars in his fancy lawyer office, and is enjoying time with Jess. Dean doesn’t want to intrude on that.

It’s after the sixth ring, when Dean’s about to hang up, that Sam answers.

“Hello?”

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Dean says, “Sammy. It’s me.”

“I know Dean. Your number comes up on my cell. Welcome to the twenty-first century.”

“Funny, Sam. Your wife appreciate your caustic sarcasm?”

“I’m sure it’s one of the many, _many_ reasons she married me.”

“Yeahuh. Well she certainly didn’t marry you for your charm, ‘cause the elder Winchester had already soaked up all those genes. Long before you were even a twinkle in the cable guy’s eye.”

“Hilarious. Less than a minute in to our first conversation in weeks and you’re already casting aspersions on mom’s virtue.”

“Fancy lawyer talk there, Sam. And you know that if she were still alive, she’d be laughing too.” Their mom had been pretty awesome, at least from what Dean remembers. She’d died when he was thirteen and Sam was nine, leaving their dad to raise them. He’d not been the best on his own with two young boys. It was left to Dean at a time when he should have been focusing on school and girls (or boys) to essentially drag Sammy up. He’s done a pretty good job, even if he does say so himself. “So why’d you phone me earlier Sasquatch? Some of us don’t work nine to five like you city boys.”

“God, nine to five around here is a dream reserved for those who can afford it. That certainly isn’t me yet, Dean.”

“It will be one day, Sammy. Nobody deserves it more than you.”

It’s a little too candid. A little too much like feelings, so in true Winchester fashion, Sam steers the conversation clear of that whole hornets’ nest, “Stop calling me Sammy. Sammy is a chubby twelve year old.”

“Don’t be such a bitch Sammy. And answer my question.”

“Holy shit, you’re a jerk.” He sighs, then says, all serious, “Look, I don’t want you to freak out, but I just thought that you should know.”

Dean’s heart stutters in his chest. There’s only two things in California that he cares about. Both for completely opposing reasons. “Know what?”

“Promise me you’re not going to freak out?”

“I promise nothing. Just stop talking in fucking riddles Sam, and tell me.”

“It’s Alastair.”

Dean’s world grinds to a halt. He can almost _feel_ the color draining from his face and he's suddenly lightheaded and woozy. Thankful to be sitting down, he digs his nails into the rough denim of his jeans. “W-what about him?”

“Ah, shit. Dean, he’s missing. He didn’t meet with his probation officer yesterday. Police went to his apartment. None of his neighbors have seen him. No-one at his job either. In fact, it seems like the last time anyone saw him was five nights ago.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness of this chapter and thanks for all the awesome comments on the last one. Much appreciated guys.

Alastair is missing.

“Dean.”

‘Missing’ is synonymous with lost. Which implies an accident, like, ‘Oh shoot, I lost my keys.’

There is nothing _accidental_ about this.

“Dean.”

He could be anywhere by now. Five days is a long time.

_He could be here._

He could be in Australia.

_Not likely._

Goddammit. Just as his life was starting to come together. Granted, the first three months here had been an unmitigated disaster of booze, work, and soul-crushing loneliness, but then Castiel.

“ _Dean_.”

Castiel, who is currently standing in front of Dean in nothing but a green towel wrapped tight around his waist, watching Dean with visible concern. Usually about now, Dean would be busy thinking about those wonderful hipbones or trying to chase the droplets of water that cling to flawless skin, trailing over bone and muscle.

Instead, he’s barely functional.

“Hm?” Admittedly, eloquence isn’t really a priority right now. Packing should be a priority. Yeah. He needs to get the fuck out of here before Alastair shows up.

_Unless he’s here already._

Not helpful.

Dean goes to get up, but Castiel doesn’t move, so they end up standing awkwardly nose to nose with each other. There’s no room between them. Dean can smell his own shampoo in Castiel’s hair, his own body wash on Castiel’s skin. Despite the situation, or maybe _because_ of it, Dean’s dick twitches in his pants.

Unblinking in the face of, well _Dean’s face_ , voiced pitched low and authoritative, Castiel says, “Sit down, Dean.”

Dean wants to say no. Almost does, but obedience is hardwired into him and so he drops back down onto the couch, looking up at Castiel through his lashes.

“You need to tell me what happened, Dean. Maybe I can help.”

Well, that’s hilarious. Nobody can help.

_Just because nobody ever did, doesn’t mean that nobody can._

That almost makes it worse.

Castiel sits down next to him on the couch, palm on Dean’s thigh. It’s supposed to be reassurance, a comforting gesture. Logically, Dean knows this, but it only stirs up memories and panic.

He shifts away, awkward and uneasy, and Castiel drops his hand.

“What is it, Dean? Please tell me.” There’s a plaintive note in Castiel’s voice that Dean hasn’t heard before. It makes his heart ache.

“You don’t wanna know.” Dean says, throat tight, because Castiel doesn’t. More importantly, he won’t wanna know _Dean_ if Dean tells him.

“I do. There’s nothing in this world that you could tell me that would make me walk away from you.”

Dean scoffs, distancing himself from the words under the guise of being pragmatic. “It’s been four days, Cas. You don’t know me and I don’t know you –“

“Don’t do that.” Castiel says, pained. “Don’t push me away like that.”

“I have to leave.” Dean declares, trying to keep the waver out of his voice, “Sammy needs me in California and I have to go.”

_Thought you weren’t running anymore?_

“What? Is everything okay? Dean, _what has happened_?”

“His wife is in hospital.” Dean swallows hard against the lie. He turns to Castiel and forces a smile, “It’s a family thing; I need to be there.”

_Thought you were done with being passive and compliant? Thought you wanted to look at yourself in the mirror without cringing?_

Dean can move somewhere without any mirrors or any kind of reflective surfaces. It’s okay. He’ll deal.

Castiel looks dismayed, but he nods. “Okay. I understand. Do you want me to drive you to the airport?”

Goddammit. Castiel is so earnest and he’s been so good to Dean. He’s kind and supportive and everything that Dean doesn’t deserve. Dean feels like he should tell him that before he leaves. Tell Castiel how much it means to him that he cares at all, let alone enough to come patch him up in the middle of the night, or drive him to the goddamn airport. But he doesn’t know how, doesn’t know how to vocalize the words, so he does the only thing that makes sense in the moment.

He surges forward, practically throwing himself at Castiel, clumsy and amateur, lips colliding and mouths fusing, hot and wet and messy, in a searing kiss. The fabric over Dean’s hips bunches as Castiel balls it into his fists, dragging Dean closer and tighter until he’s clumsily straddling Cas’s lap, a knee on either side of his thighs.

Dean groans into the kiss, vision sparking fire, rolling his pelvis forward and grinding downward against the hot, hard line of Castiel’s cock beneath the towel. His slides his palms over the smooth curve of Castiel’s biceps, fingernails digging into muscle reflexively when Cas’s hips hitch up into his.

If he were thinking straight, Dean would be concerned about how desperate he is to be desired by Castiel, how everything else is rendered irrelevant when Cas _looks_ at him, all molten heat and violent want, but the only thing that he can bring himself to care about in the moment is Cas’s teeth scraping over the skin of his throat, Cas’s hands under Dean’s shirt, mapping every inch of skin, fingertips pressing bruises into Dean’s flesh.

“ _Cas_.”

With nimble fingers, Castiel unbuttons Dean’s pants and then works the zipper down, shoving them as far down Dean’s thighs as the position will let him. He yanks Dean’s boxers just below the curve of his ass, exposing his cock and pushing the elastic waistband under his balls. It’s awkward and inelegant, but neither of them seem to care as Castiel cants his hips up and yanks away his towel, tip of his hard dick gleaming wet.

Air between them humid with their shared heat, they move together, cocks sliding bare, wonderful slick and glide, creating an unrelenting friction so good that it has them both breathing ragged, seeking out any kind of coherent rhythm. Cas reaches out with one hand, smooth skin of his palm on Dean’s dick, jacking him off with slow, firm strokes, as he watches Dean through heavy-lidded eyes, hot surge of attraction pulling and binding them together.

Dean’s not able to tear his own eyes away from Cas’s face, flush of color on the sweep of his cheekbones, plush lips parted and kiss-swollen, blue eyes blown black and glinting from under dark lashes.

He is fucked. So utterly, utterly fucked.

“Please,” Dean whispers, curling his fingers around Castiel’s cock in a loose fist. He’s not even sure what he’s pleading for, he just knows that Castiel can provide it. “Need it, Cas.”

“Need what, Dean?” Castiel grunts through clenched teeth, free hand skimming up between Dean’s shoulder blades, gripping the fine strands of hair at the base of his neck, and tugging.

Dean moans, eyelids fluttering shut, jaw going slack, grip on Castiel’s cock faltering.

“Need what?” Castiel repeats, fingers firmly entwined in Dean’s hair, twisting his grip to bare Dean’s throat. “ _Answer me_.”

“ _You_.” Dean whines helplessly as he comes, spurting hot and thick over Castiel’s fist, hips frantic and heartbeat stuttering to catch up to his heavy breathing. His throat is raw and dry as he gasps for air, riding the wave of endorphins, barely hanging on as Cas fucks into his hand with utter abandon, hips rutting on pure instinct.

It could be seconds or hours later that Castiel damn near growls out, “Fuck, _Dean_ ,” as he comes, spilling in the scant space between their bodies, flat stomach heaving. Dean watches every micro expression that flits across Castiel’s handsome face during his orgasm, every facet of pure bliss.

It may be the hottest thing that Dean has ever seen. And he’s watched a lot of porn.

He’s going to miss that perfect face when he leaves.

“Are you alright, Dean?” Castiel asks, with a breathless laugh. “You look a little shell-shocked.”

He’s going to miss everything about Castiel when he leaves.

Three months here and all that actually matters to him is someone he’s known for a mere fraction of that time.

“Yeah, ‘course.” Now that the endorphin high is wearing off, it suddenly hits Dean how uncomfortable – both physically and emotionally – this position is, so with a smile, small and wry, he clambers backwards off Castiel’s lap and tucks himself back in to his boxers, grimacing at the feeling of cooling come against his thigh, tacky and gross.

He definitely needs a shower.

A silence settles between them. The tension’s still there, still wrapped around them like a blanket, but it’s not as bad as before.

Dean still has to leave though.

He drops back down next to Castiel on the couch, not bothering to zip up his work pants. For a fleeting moment he wonders if he has a clean pair, before he realizes that it doesn’t matter. He won’t be going into work tomorrow.

Or the next day. Or the day after that.

With a low groan, Castiel shoves himself up and off the couch, turning around briefly to retrieve the towel, before wrapping it back around his waist again. He pads off towards the kitchen, calling out over his shoulder as he switches the light on, “Do you want a glass of water?”

“Sure, thanks Cas.”

A few more minutes. He’ll stay for a few more minutes.

He hears the squeaky hinge of a cupboard door, followed closely by the sound of running water. When Castiel returns, glass of water in one hand, small white tablets – ibuprofen, Dean assumes – in the other, Dean manages a tiny membrane-thin smile. “How’d you know?”

“That you were in pain?” Castiel clarifies, holding out the pills for Dean to take, “It doesn’t take a genius Dean. You’ve taken quite a beating over the past few days. Any strenuous activity is bound to make you a little sore.”

It’s not a physical ache that has the burning hot sting of tears behind Dean’s eyes though.

His voice is shaky, like he’s standing on the ledge of something he can’t see, when he says, “Always taking care of me, Cas.”

A few more seconds. He’ll stay for a few more seconds.

“Of course.” Castiel smiles kindly as Dean chucks the pills back and then takes the glass of water from him, and chugs it down. “I’ll always keep you safe.”

 

 

***

 

Dean wakes up with his face pushed into the curve of someone’s collarbone, tiny puddle of drool gathered in the hollow. Which is only slightly embarrassing. Whoever it is smells like the spring; all dewy grass and weak sunshine and for a split second in time, Dean feels almost buoyant; like if he’s got someone like this into bed, then it can’t be all bad.

It doesn’t take longer than a few groggy seconds before he realizes that he’s in his own bed and that the body half-trapped underneath him is Castiel’s. And, more importantly, that Alastair is AWOL.

Fuck. He was supposed to get out of here last night.

Noiselessly, he manages to extricate himself from Castiel’s Arnie-strength grasp, being careful not to wake the soundly sleeping professor. Stage one of his constantly evolving ‘Get The Fuck Out Of Here’ plan complete, he rolls onto his side and rubs the sleep from his eyes. The clock on the nightstand tells him that it’s just after eleven a.m. He was supposed to be in work two hours ago.

Not that it matters anymore.

“I phoned in sick for you. There’s no way that you should be going to work today.”

Dean flinches, taken completely by surprise. He turns over, folding his arm under his head. Castiel is now wide awake, in the process of propping himself up against the headboard, sheets pooled around his waist, slipping a little lower as he moves, before he tugs them back over his lap. He’s completely naked. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Like the dead.” Dean admits. Which is weird. Yeah, he’d been tired, but he was far too wired about the whole Alastair thing to sleep that deeply. Even including the possibility of a sex coma.

“I’m glad. So are you ready to tell me what last night was about really?”

Dean freezes, breath snaring in his throat, “I told you. Family problem.”

“You did tell me that, yes,” Castiel says evenly, brushing at an invisible speck of dirt on the sheet with the back of his hand. “I believe it to be a lie though. So why don’t you tell me what’s _actually_ going on and I’ll see what I can do to help?”

The panic is rising again, clawing its way up Dean’s throat like a wild animal. “I need to go Cas.” He throws back the sheets – the Hell did he get naked last night? – and swings his legs over the side of the bed, ready to bolt, nudity be damned.

“Dean.” Castiel’s grip is immediately firm around Dean’s wrist, severely impeding the success of stage two of his GTFOOH plan. “Please. Tell me. I promise that I won’t judge. Don’t you trust me?”

It’s a low blow. Because _of course_ Dean trusts Castiel, even though there’s a loose thread of doubt at the back of his mind that keeps snagging on his consciousness. He can’t quite figure out why though. “Of course I do, Cas.”

“Tell me.”

Dean fidgets in Castiel’s grasp, unsure of how to explain the all-encompassing fear that he has of Alastair. It’s a conditioned response, like the ASPCA version of Pavlov’s experiment.

Sensing his obvious discomfort, Castiel releases his wrist, but moves closer, ready to act if Dean tries to make another break for it.

“Man, I don’t know,” Dean chokes out a strangled sounding laugh, drags a shaky hand through his hair. “It’s not that straightforward.”

“It can be.”

Dean whips around to face Castiel, annoyed at the assumption. “How the fuck could you possibly know that? You Argus or some shit?”

Castiel tilts his head, just a hint of a smile curling at the corners of his mouth, “It’s a little early for Greek Mythology references, don’t you think?”

Castiel is apparently not taking this seriously.

Fine.

“What _I think,”_ Dean spits, 10% righteous anger and 90% very-fucking-real fear, “is that it’s time I got the Hell out of here, whilst I’ve still got the legs to carry me.”

His statement has the desired effect; in an instant, Castiel’s expression turns serious. “What do you mean?”

Dean throws his arms up in exasperation. Not just at Castiel or the situation, but also himself. Sometimes – most of the time – he wishes that he was the man that his dad wanted him to be. Strong. Unyielding. Someone to be proud of. But he’s not. If he were any of those things, then he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.

“It’s my fucking ex, okay?” He blurts, and although that two letter word does absolutely nothing to convey the truth about his relationship with Alastair, it comes close enough for Dean to work with. “He’s a psychopath. Recently out of jail. For damn near killing me a couple of years ago. He got out a few months back, released on probation. He’s been missing for a few days now. Probably already here, plotting how to finish the fucking job.”

If Castiel is surprised, he’s hiding it awfully well. “He only got a couple of years for attempted murder?”

There is nothing Dean can do but swallow his growing anxiety and actually have this goddamn conversation, “He got let out on a technicality. I don’t really know the details. Wasn’t really listening. Too busy packing my shit up. Like I should be now.”

“So he just gets to keep defining your life? Whenever he makes a move, you have to counter it by running?”

“Seems like the sanest thing to do, yep.”

“Does it?”

Dean bristles, more annoyed with himself than Castiel. It’s not like he was expecting Cas to understand, but he’d been _hoping,_ “What else do you suggest?”

Dean’s anticipating a response of, “Go to the police.” But it never comes. Instead, Castiel says, “You have your gun, don’t you?”

The non-sequitur throws him off balance, “Umm. Yes?”

He’s not quite sure where Castiel is going with this.

“I don’t see a problem then. You can easily handle him.” – _Definitely not there_ – “In the past few nights you’ve come out on top of a fight with two drug addicts and shot someone who wanted to hurt you. What makes this ex of yours any different?”

Objectively, nothing. But that’s not the point. Alastair is an evil son of a bitch who makes Charles Manson look like an amateur.

“Everything.” Dean answers honestly. “He’s a goddamn minion of Hell, Cas.”

If patience is a virtue, then Castiel must be a saint, because he simply smiles good-naturedly and says, “I’m not belittling your experiences, Dean. I would never do that. But he’s not a demon or monster. He’s not anything you haven’t faced before. He’s just a man. A man who bleeds if you shoot him with a .45. No different from you or I in that respect. Maybe his mind is warped, but does that really matter when it’s only his body that you need to kill, to finally be free?”

Well, fuck.

“You’re stronger than you think, Dean.”

“Yeah, and you’re scary as fuck, Cas.”

He’s only half joking.

As Sylvia Plath as it all sounds, Castiel does have a point. Alastair may well be a scary fucker, but he’s made of the same stuff as Dean. Flesh and bone. He’s just a man.

_Just a man._

It’s entirely possible that running may not be the best option in this situation. In fact, Dean would go so far as to say that perhaps running in the first place may have not been the best option. Save for the fact that it lead him straight to Cas.

However, it doesn’t really change anything. It doesn’t change the fact that Alastair is either already here or potentially on his way. It doesn’t change the fact that Dean is scared of the bastard. And it definitely doesn’t change the fact that he can’t deal with this. Doesn’t even know how or where to begin.

Very gently, like he’s dealing with a spooked animal, Castiel reaches for Dean, cupping the edge of his jaw, thumb smoothing across the rough stubble there, “Dean. You survived. You’re alive. You’re here with me right now, which already means that you’ve beaten him once. You won. You may have walked through fire and over glass, but you’re still here and you’re still smiling and you’re still so goddamn beautiful that it hurts. You know what it feels like to almost lose everything. And that means that you stand for something. And I want you to know that in me you have someone who’s willing to stand with you too. Against whatever or _whoever_. I meant what I said Dean. I’m not losing you now that I have you.”

It’s not quite like the other times they’ve kissed. No desperate surprise, but a natural urgency, and Dean’s choking back tears, so it swiftly disintegrates into messy gasps and desperate breaths that cling between them, but he’s happy, so happy. There’s someone in this world who gives a shit, beyond his brother, and it’s something that Dean never thought he’d ever have.

He pulls away, smiling through watery eyes, “Are you _sure_ that you’re just a professor of English Lit?”

***

 

Douglas County Coroner’s Office is just south of Kansas City, a one-story flat-roofed building that looks about as plain and not-at-all-ominous as any other structure.

It’s a bit of an anti-climax really.

After their Oprah moment this morning, he and Cas had taken another crack at deciphering the latest note. If Dean ever meets this ‘J’, he’s going to have serious words about his stupidly obscure clues, because ‘a modern day Charon’s Gate’ is some Krypton Factor bullshit.

“Charon was the ferryman of Hades, right?” Dean had asked, pacing the kitchen, still not anything close to comfortable with the whole Alastair situation, but doing his damndest to keep a lid on it. He has Castiel. Castiel will help him deal. Castiel makes him a stronger person, “He carried souls of the dead across the river Styx.”

“And Acheron.” Castiel added, munching quietly on some toast. “Dividing the world of the living and the dead.”

“Right.” Coming up blank on that little slice of bullshit pie, Dean had moved onto the next piece, “’Where souls recount their chilling tales’? What the fuck does that mean? Dead men tell no tales. Unless you ask some dick on a procedural cop show like C.S.I. where they’re always talking shit about how the bodies speak to them, tell them how they died.”

“Chilling could be taken literally.” Castiel had suggested.

“How do you mean?”

“Well. Running with your C.S.I. idea… Dead bodies are kept cool whilst the coroner examines them. Slows the rot. Could also be seen as the modern day version of Charon. You know, helping them into the afterlife, but by performing an autopsy. I don’t know. It’s kind of tenuous, but it may have merit.”

Dean had stopped dead – pun intended – silent for a few moments as he tried to process exactly what Castiel was saying to him, “Cas, are you telling me that this guy is sending me to a morgue?”

Castiel had shrugged apologetically, “Certainly looks that way.”

Which is precisely why Dean is standing outside a morgue, at midnight on a Thursday, questioning his life choices. And possibly his sanity. Again.

_Seriously though. What is it with this guy and dead bodies?_

Dean shoots a look over his shoulder at Castiel, who’s sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, odd patterns of shadows from nearby tree branches concealing part of his face. Which is another development courtesy of their little After School Special earlier. Cas had expressed his concerns about Dean going on these bizarre hunts alone. So, despite J’s insistence that Castiel was to butt out of proceedings, both Cas and Dean agreed that it would be best for Dean’s physical and mental well-being if Cas came along just as backup.

Dean’s more than thankful for it. If J wants to end the game over it, then so be it.

Well, maybe not so be it. But Dean isn’t willing to put himself in more jeopardy than necessary. Especially with Alastair on the loose.

A fine tremor runs through Dean’s body. It has nothing to do with the cold.

From what Dean can see – which isn’t much, admittedly – the whole place looks dark; no lights on anywhere inside the building. There’s nobody about.

Actually, it’s probably more accurate to say that there’s nobody _in the immediate vicinity right at this moment in time_.

He’s learned his lesson about assumptions.

Instead of strolling straight up to the glass paneled front doors, in plain sight of CCTV cameras, or – more importantly – of anyone who might be watching, Dean stays in the relative safety of the deserted lot and makes his way around the side, flashlight in hand but turned off. There’s enough moonlight to see well enough.

He spots a window low enough for him to climb through. It looks locked though and the idea of breaking the glass doesn’t really appeal; if there is someone inside it could alert them to his presence, or possibly trip an alarm. Though, if the place is alarmed, he has bigger worries than simply gaining entry. He slowly makes his way around the whole building, searching for a viable way in, until eventually, he’s back where he started. Except, Castiel is standing at the double doors of the front entrance, one of which is open.

Voice a throaty whisper, Dean hisses, “The fuck, Cas?”

“It was open.” Castiel responds, decidedly unruffled. “Looks like your secret admirer was prepared.”

“Yeahuh,” Dean mutters, slipping inside past Castiel, a little closer than strictly necessary if Cas’s sharp intake of breath is anything to go by. “Aren’t you going back to the car?”

“No.” Castiel replies frankly, as he guides the door closed quietly. “Deal with it.”

“Ass.” Dean mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Castiel hear and be indignant about. He switches the flashlight on, keeping the beam low.

Inside, it’s eerily quiet. They walk in silence down the long corridor; the dull thud of their boots echoing off the linoleum floor is the only sound that they make.

At the end of the corridor, a sign announces: KANSAS STATE DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC HEALTH, LAWRENCE SUBSTATION. Then, a plaque: MORGUE.

The first room that they find beyond the double swing doors is one labelled CLEAN ROOM. As soon as they enter, Dean at once finds himself hemmed in by dented file cabinets, book shelves, and a lot of computer equipment. There’s a couple of long tables bolted to the floor. Thankfully empty.

No sign of Dean’s next envelope.

Moving on, they wander into the autopsy room, which is quite a lot bigger than the clean room. Next to the stainless steel sink there’s a blue and white box of Johnson & Johnson Morgue Swipes, which boasts, ‘Kills E. Coli and Other Morgue-Related Bacteria on Contact! Kills Herpes, Hepatitis B and HIV!’

Dean turns his attention to the various jars of _whatever_ stacked on top of the adjoining counter, up against the wall. He shines the flashlight on each jar in turn. He’s half expecting there to be some brains or body matter in some of them, but there’s nothing.

He’s only a little relieved. Mostly disappointed.

Someone here is really wasting a Frankenstein-type opportunity.

Which is probably a good thing, actually.

“Dean. Over here.” Castiel’s whisper is a harsh intrusion on the silence.

He makes his way over to Cas who is standing by the wall of morgue cold chambers. There’s a rectangular envelope taped to one of the doors, about halfway up in the middle row.

Dean shines his light on it. There, in the same neat writing as always, is his name.

“Jesus,” Dean reaches up and rips it free. He turns it over in his hands. It feels a little thick to just be a letter. “I think there’s money in here too, Cas.”

“Only one way to find out.”

He picks at a corner of the flap, tears it upwards, thrusting his forefinger into the small hole, working his finger along the seam, ripping upward. He pulls out the folded paper and a stack of bills. Dean’s guessing about sixteen hundred dollars’ worth.

_Holy shit._

He slips the bills back into the envelope and hands it to Castiel. He unfolds the note and begins to read.

“’My dearest Dean, Well done on making it this far. Now to put your answer from my previous letter into practice. This particular treasure may be considered X-rated, but Y marks the spot. Yours, J.’”

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this has taken so long guys. The next one should hopefully be up on Monday.  
> Also, I'll make sure to respond to all your lovely comments within the next couple of days. Thank you for the support, it is appreciated.
> 
> I've tried to keep this as non-graphic as possible, but it's not the most pleasant of subject matter, so just be aware.

Does an eye for an eye really make the world blind?

Wasn’t it Gandhi who said something about that? Though, according to Sam, dude was a fruitarian, so his advice on anything unrelated to recipes that replace the meat in a pie with orange peel is probably best ignored.

The concept of karmic retribution is one that Dean used to believe in. A long time ago. Before his sixteen year old self was bought by Alastair. In some circles, it’s referred to as being a kept man. In most of the ones that Dean was forced to run in, it’s known as ‘you’d-better-do-as-I-tell-you-or-you-and-your-scrawny-little-brother-will-be-living-in-the-gutter-and-blowing-truck-drivers-for-a-99-cent-burger’.

Now? Well, a couple of years in jail doesn’t really seem like any kind of punishment at all. Certainly not when Dean still has to deal with the repercussions this far down the line.

But that’s not the issue at hand. The issue is one of actual, physical retaliation. At least, that’s how Dean’s choosing to interpret it. And there’s a whole galaxy of difference between karmic retribution and just plain old vengeance. Karma is the hands-off version. Someone can easily say: ‘I hope he gets his,’ whilst maintaining distance and a distinct lack of accountability. The moral high ground is still kept, along with clean hands.

But then again, who gives a shit about the moral high ground? Or clean hands? Like, honestly.

Actively going out and taking revenge requires balls the size of Texas. It takes guts and bravery and someone far tougher than Dean. Because Dean is still who he was all those years ago, just a bit taller and more apathetic. He’s still scared, but he doesn’t have what it takes to not be.

If there were no legal repercussions and Dean was able to pull himself together, then he could probably see his way to putting a bullet in Alastair’s brain without losing too much sleep over it.

So yeah, an eye for an eye may make the world blind, but sometimes it’s better not to see what you’re doing.

“Are you okay, Dean?” Cas asks. Seconds later the fluorescent lights flicker into life overhead.

Now, might be one of those instances.

“Hmm,” Dean replies, eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness, staring down at the note still in his hand, but not reading the handwritten words. “You think he means somewhere in this building? There’s no big Y anywhere in town like in that episode of the Simpsons with the cat burglar and the letter T, is there?”

That used to be one of Sammy’s favorite episodes. Along with the one where Bart sells his soul and the one where Lisa becomes a vegetarian.

Looking back, the signs were all there, really.

Castiel tilts his head, a quietly serious expression on his face, “I don’t understand that reference, Dean.”

“… Never mind.” He moves to examine the wall of cold chambers; three rows of five. So fifteen in all. The one that the note was taped to is exactly in the middle of that fifteen. He’s not sure if it’s significant or whether he’s just reading too much into it. “Should we open the… corpse box? Y’know, slide it out and check?”

“Check for what?”

Dean isn’t really sure. What is he expecting to find? A corpse stuffed with money? Dollar bills taped to the poor bastard? “I don’t know.” Isn’t sure he wants to. “It just seems oddly specific for J to leave the note here, without any discernible reason. It won’t take a moment to check.” He’s already gripping the door handle, stainless steel cool against his palm. It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid; nice and quick before he has time to pussy out.

He tugs and the door opens with a metallic click.

The body is lying there so candidly, it’s almost surreal. Blatant, like a surprise shout in the dark.

Dean lifts the light sheet covering the corpse, letting it fall off over at Cas’s side.

It’s male. _Was_ a male.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters, eyes drawn back to its face.

Well. What used to be his face, ‘cause there isn’t really much of one left, not even a facsimile of anything that could be called a human face. It looks more like a blue-black poultice, misshapen beyond all recognition.  The messy tangle of hair is relatively clean now, but Dean can imagine the clumps of blood and brain matter in it when he was brought in here.

_Jesus Christ, indeed._

Dean wants to gag, feels like that would be an appropriate response, but instead he’s just staring at the lifeless body of someone who was probably walking around only the day before, going grocery shopping, working at a bar or something.

It’s pretty fucking sobering.

He’s thankful at least for the lack of gross rotting smell, which is replaced by the less disgusting mixture of disinfectant and formaldehyde.

Because levity in the face of adversity is a Dean Winchester special, he manages to inject a little humor into his words, when he looks up at Cas over the deceased and asks, “Let me guess, blunt force trauma was the cause of death?”

“Nice catch, Dean.”

Castiel’s deadpan expression gives away nothing. Like whether he’s being serious or not.

Dean casts his eyes downwards, choosing to stare at the corpse again, uncomfortable under Castiel’s laser-beam-like focus.

Considering that the face is such a mess, the skinny body really isn’t all that bad in comparison; pallid and with a bluey tinge, there are smudges of purple bruises all over and a couple of lacerations, but nothing else. Aside from the track marks on the inside of his left arm.

Whoever did this was pretty fucking angry with the poor son of a bitch. Maybe his dealer or something.

“What’s the name?” Dean asks without making eye contact. It’s probably on the toe tag and Dean isn’t quite sure he’s quite ready to touch the dude yet. He’s not squeamish or anything – though he’d much rather be at home with a cold beer right now than surrounded by dead people – it just feels kind of disrespectful. Like the poor bastard hasn’t suffered enough indignity in his life (or at least at the end of it) that he’s gotta suffer one more by having his feet fumbled with by a librarian who’s looking for some cash.

If there’s ever a reason for the dead to rise, Dean’s pretty sure that this right here is it.

Luckily, Castiel seems to have found a way around that. He’s holding an open manila folder. Like the ones in TV detective shows. “Michael Lewis. Was brought in as a John Doe last night, but he was formally identified today, by a… Vincent Norris. And also fingerprints... due to the y’know,” he gestures loosely to the space where the corpse’s – Michael Lewis’s – face used to be, “You won’t be surprised to learn that he was a felon.”

Wait. Michael? Vincent?

_Mikey and Vince._

Holy fuck.

Dean is aware that the expression on his face must look like he’s struggling with higher brain function, but he kind of is. He’s completely stuck on the idea that just a couple of nights ago, this guy was breathing the same air as Dean. Now he’s not breathing at all.

Is someone trying to frame Dean? Did someone see them under the bridge? But what use would that be? And why leave it a couple of days when all possibility of Dean’s DNA would be gone? But then again, Dean never touched Mikey. It was Vince that he fought with.

So what the actual fuck?

It’s safe to say that there’s no chance of this being a coincidence. Not that there’s any such thing.

_J_

J must have done this. On Dean’s behalf? Did J stick around after Dean left? Maybe followed them, overheard them talking about some kind of revenge plan on Dean. But what for? They got away with an extra two hundred dollars. Hardly a cause for revenge. They knew nothing about Dean either – aside from his first name – and it’s not like they got a decent look at him in the dark. Not much of a threat. No. That’s not it.

Dean replays the interaction with the two junkies over in his mind. There’s not really anything that J could have perceived as a realistic threat to Dean and therefore the game. Of course, Dean’s aware that he’s completely dismissing the idea of J being an indiscriminate killer – that he doesn’t have any good reason for doing any of this and that he’s actually a psychopath – and he doesn’t really want to examine the reasons for that too closely.

The guy is clearly unhinged if he’s going around killing people. But Dean is convinced that there’s more to it than that. If he wanted to hurt Dean, he’s had ample opportunity. He can’t be that crazy.

So what the fuck is all this really?

A very good question. However, there’s another one that Dean needs answered first. Admittedly, it’s quite a leap, “Cas, why would red roses be left on a grave?”

“What?”

“There were roses left on Babe’s grave. Roses aren’t normal for death, right? Red roses especially. They’re usually given on Valentine’s day, all that lovey dovey shit.”

Dean sort of wishes he had first-hand experience of ‘lovey dovey shit’.

Castiel looks mildly affronted, “Well, it depends, I suppose. One might leave them on the grave of a loved one. Traditionally, red roses represent love, respect and sometimes courage. But it’s not common, no. It’s usually yellow roses, lilies, or poppies on graves.”

Which just confirms what Dean had thought at the time. For fuck’s sake, Dean’s note was taped to them. “What if they were left for me?”

Castiel says nothing.

So Dean elaborates, “Seriously, what if J left roses on the grave for me? I’ve been trying to think of why the Hell one of the fucking trolls under the bridge from a few nights ago is on a slab in front of me tonight, but for the life of me, I can’t figure it out. But if those roses were left for me, then it makes a whole lot more sense.”

Castiel is staring at Dean like he doesn’t agree. At least about the making sense part. “What on earth are you talking about? Are you telling me that this man is one of the two that tried to hurt you –“

But Dean’s on a roll; his train of thought has left the station and it’s not slowing down for anyone, “He’s in love with me. Or some kind of variation. Lust or love. Whatever. He’s been trying to court me. Or whatever his weird version is of it anyway. Showing me books and art, flowers and dead bodies –”

“Dean.”

With this new insight, Dean reviews the interaction with Vince and Mikey through the eyes of a boyfriend or lover. Mikey made sexual comments about Dean, was the first to go for Dean’s gun in the fight. It’s a natural human reaction to want to inflict pain on anyone who hurt someone you care about.

Maybe killing them is a little extreme, but Dean can understand it, even if he can’t necessarily condone it.

An eye for an eye.

_‘Does an eye for an eye really make the whole world blind?’_

Is this J’s gruesome way of asking Dean if he approves?

His knee-jerk reaction is no, of course he doesn’t approve. But he’d be lying if the idea that there’s someone out there willing to kill for him, doesn’t get him a little hot. Hypothetically, who doesn’t want that? An ultimate show of love? After all, there are scores of movies out there about the very same thing. Like The Abominable Dr. Phibes, according to Cas.

_‘“So you’re telling me that Dr. Phibes impaling someone on a bronze unicorn is – in his mind – the right thing to do for true love?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“And not in the slightest bit obsessive or creepy, or Hell, even downright unnecessary?”_

_“Unnecessary perhaps, and rather elaborate. But if someone you love was hurt or killed by another, wouldn’t you want vengeance?”’_

Interesting. And by interesting, Dean means utterly terrifying. 

Is this something that Dean is really considering? 

_Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me._

Now Dean could put it down to coincidence – but once again, no such thing – or because it’s almost one a.m. and he’s standing over a corpse and wants to go home… “Cas. Does that folder have an estimated time of death for the stiff here?”

Dean watches closely as Castiel’s eyes scan the page in front of him, cool as ever, blissfully unaware of Dean's thoughts. “Between the hours of midnight and four am.”

Well that solves that one. Castiel was with him all night. So he can’t be J. Not that Dean ever _really_ doubted that, but still. It’s nice to have the confirmation. He’s just tired and creeped out. He's not thinking straight.

It does leave the rather concerning question of who _is_ J, but that’s been the case for the best part of a week now; Dean can wait at least until he gets home to try and figure out the answer for that one.

For now, he really should be focusing on the body in front of him and exactly what J wants of him this time. Though he’s already got a sinking feeling about this.

“’Y marks the spot.’” Dean mutters absently, surveying the body. What the fuck does that even mean? Unless –

Holy shit. The autopsy scar. Of course. It’s a fucking Y.

No, just no.

There’s no amount of money in the world that would make Dean cut open a dead guy. Well, re-open a dead guy. Even one who has wronged him.

_Not even thirty-two hundred bucks?_

At best, it’s disrespectful. At worst, it’s a felony.

Maybe Dean should phone Sam and check that last one before he does anything.

_Oh, sure. Now legality suddenly matters._

Fair point. It may be a little late to start worrying about that kind of shit.

Up close, it’s not as clean as it is on TV. The scar itself is all puffy and the skin is woven back together, not with surgical precision, but more like a bored housewife making a present for that neighbor she doesn’t really like.

Which makes sense when Dean thinks about it. After all, who’s gonna bother wasting valuable time making neat stitches on a corpse that’s either going in the oven or the ground?

Of course, it could also indicate that someone – J – has interfered with the body after the pathologist was done.

Eh, either way.

Castiel is suddenly by Dean’s side again, offering him a pair of latex gloves and an encouraging smile.

“It’s okay, Dean. You can do it.”

Whilst Dean is as open to the idea of blind optimism as the next guy, Cas’s unfailing faith in him is what has him snapping on the gloves with an over-exaggerated sigh that belies just how fucking scared he really is. Castiel gives him a scalpel, handle first.

With a shaky hand, Dean places the blade against the thread of lowest stitch. He tries to make himself push down, but he can’t. His fingers just aren’t cooperating and for the first time since he started this ridiculous game, he’s seriously considering calling it quits.

“Cas, I can’t.”

Dean feels the solid warmth of Castiel’s body pressing up tight against his spine, fingers of Cas’s left hand curling possessively over Dean’s hip, as he reaches around with his right, covering Dean’s hand over the scalpel. He pushes down.

Dean’s half expecting to see blood well up from the opening. But of course, it doesn’t. It’s clean and neat, and whilst Dean’s never been weirded out by the sight of blood, he’s glad for its absence in this case.

“You can, Dean. You’ve got this.” Castiel murmurs, voice low, lips moving against the bare skin of Dean’s neck.

Dean sucks in a deep breath. And not just because he’s nervous about cutting open a dead guy. “Okay,” He says on the exhale, more to himself than Cas. “Okay. I’ve got this.”

Against the edge of his jaw, he feels Castiel smile.

Under Castiel’s careful guidance, before he knows it, Dean has followed the full length of the Y, successfully re-opening the stitches. It feels kinda good to prove himself wrong; he can totally do this shit. Though, hopefully he’ll never have to again.

But it’s nice to know he _can_.

Cas still has his hand on Dean’s hip, and Dean can feel the scorching heat of it seeping through the fabric of his pants, right down to his bones. “Well done, Dean.” Castiel flexes his fingers incrementally, casually possessive. “You’re doing so well. I’m really proud of you.”

Dean swallows. He would love to say that he can’t remember the last person who told him that they were proud of him, but he can. It was his mom and he’d got an A on his paper about the Battle of the Somme.

She’d died a couple of months later.

“Now what?” Dean asks, voice rough, though he already knows the answer. He just needs to hear Cas say it to make sure that he’s not jumping to a conclusion that can be avoided.

“Have a look around.”

“’Have a look around’?” Dean repeats incredulously, “Cas, he’s not a fucking yard sale.”

Castiel laughs softly, turning his head enough that his mouth brushes open against Dean’s neck when he moves, and it’s not really helping Dean’s already-precarious focus. Cas removes the scalpel from Dean’s grip. “You need to pull the skin away, open him up.”

_Like a can of beans. Or worms._

Ugh.

Dean does as he’s directed. And it’s just as unappealing and gross as he knew it would be. He kind of wants to make a joke about being inside someone in front of Cas and how kinky it is, but most of his brain function is currently taken up on not bolting or throwing up.

Each rib has been snipped through at the sides of the chest to allow access to the chest cavity. Dean grips the sternum. It’s slimy and horrific, but he tugs and the chest plate comes away. Inside, the organs are separated, cut away from their connecting tubes.

Over the heart, there’s a Ziploc bag. Because of course there is. Covered in goo and sticky icky stuff. Dean can just about see the white corner of an envelope inside the bag.

_Well, shit._

It’s only further confirmation of Dean’s theory that J is in love with him, because giving the one you love someone else’s heart is the ultimate in romance. Dumber people might give their own heart, but when you’re talking literals instead of metaphors – as J seems to be – that would be a mistake.

Dean removes the bag. And just stares at it.

His life has definitely taken a turn for the bizarre recently.

“Go wash it.” Castiel tells him, gently steering Dean away from the body like a dazed child. “I’ll put everything back where it belongs.”

Like toys in a toy box.

Dean wants to ask Castiel where he developed his stellar ability to dissociate, but that’s a conversation for a day where they don’t have the corpse of a junkie open with his guts hanging out.

Dean can feel the beginnings of hysterical – in the very original sense of the word – laughter bubbling up his throat, threatening to escape, so he does as he’s told, holding the goo bag at arm’s length as he makes his way over to the sink.

He washes the gloves too, ‘cause as Castiel points out – best not to leave any evidence about – and pulls a wad of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall. Once he’s removed the gloves he cleans his hands with the Johnson & Johnson Morgue Wipes just for good measure.

He glances over his shoulder at Castiel, who is still sewing Mikey up, expression serious and entirely focused on his task. Whilst Dean’s waiting, he may as well have a look at the note.

Despite the Ziploc bag being totally clean now – Dean made completely sure of that – because he’s burdened with the knowledge of _exactly_ where it’s been, he’s still cautious as he gingerly removes the envelope from inside.

He rips open the flap. Inside, he finds a huge wad of dollar bills. On his first count, he gets $3,400. Which, if math serves him correctly – and he’d be the first to admit that it doesn’t always – then it’s two hundred dollars more than it should be.

He counts it again.

$3,400.

Time for a second opinion. “Cas. Sixteen hundred dollars doubled is thirty-two hundred, right?”

“Yeah,” Cas grunts.

“There’s thirty-four hundred in here.”

During the pause that follows, Dean counts again in his head.

“Didn’t you miss out on two hundred dollars that night at the bridge?” Castiel asks unconcernedly, almost done with the stitches.

Yes. Yes he did. Mikey took it and ran off.

_Well, Jesus fuck._

He tucks the bills back in to the envelope and pulls out the note. It’s folded into thirds, just like the others.

He reads it aloud, voice clear and jarringly loud in the silence of the morgue.

“’My dearest Dean,

He tried to finish you. Now it’s your turn to finish him. Tomorrow night, at the edge of Hell in the house of God, when the clock strikes twelve, you will be born again.

Yours, J.’”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, remember me? Sorry this has taken so long. It's been written and rewritten so many times as I tried to decide what to include in this pivotal chapter.   
> Thank you all for your kind words and patience; they were instrumental in me not rage-quitting this fic and throwing my laptop out of the window. Hopefully it's worth the wait.  
> This chapter is pretty blasphemous from start to finish... Sorry about that!

There’s something creepy about being in an empty church at night.

That said, every deserted building is pretty fucking creepy at night; the morgue hadn’t exactly been a trip to Disneyworld.

Here it seems worse somehow.

Probably because it’s a church. God’s house. Maybe He doesn’t appreciate trespassers in his home.

Especially armed trespassers here to potentially harm or kill someone.

But then again, Old Testament God was all wrath and vengeance. It’s only New Testament God who’s a bit of a pussy.

Regardless of what a deity that doesn’t actually exist may or may not appreciate, Dean isn’t  overjoyed at the prospect of sneaking about in a place where people come every Sunday to hear sermons about death and Heaven and punishments waiting for sinners in Hell.

He’s pretty sure that this is the right place. The crumbling Methodist church next to Stull cemetery – or at the edge of Hell – had seemed like the obvious choice. The parking lot outside was empty when Dean had arrived, but there was no guarantee that someone wasn’t inside. The main doors at the front had been locked, as had the one at the back – both good signs – but he’d found a side door that opened easily and lead him to the back edge of the baptism pool.

Elevated towards the rear of the sanctuary, the pool gives Dean a height from which to look down at the back of the pulpit, the altar, and beyond to the nave with its row upon row of dark pews. Only the choir loft, at the far end of the nave, provides a higher vantage point than Dean’s current position by the pool.

The loft has drawbacks though. The way its balcony juts out means that Dean wouldn’t be able to see what might be going on underneath it. And for the best view, Dean would need to be in the front row. If he kept watch from there, his back would be vulnerable because of entryways at the rear of the loft. Someone could sneak up on him…

Dean shivers.

The air is damp with dew and smells of mouldering vegetation.

Knowing what the fuck to expect would be distinct advantage here, but since that’s a luxury J doesn’t seem to believe in furnishing Dean with, he’s got to do the best with what he’s got. Which, luckily, is something that Dean was practically an expert in by the time he was sixteen, so it’s nothing new really.

Still, the circumstances aren’t quite the same.

The baptism pool is reminiscent of a spa, but not quite. Dean has limited knowledge on the subject, but he’s sure that spas are usually round or square, where as this is fairly long and narrow, with stairs at both ends. A short distance beyond each set of stairs is a door. Kind of like stage doors, probably leading into a network of corridors and small rooms. Dressing rooms, perhaps? Where people go to change into whatever they wear to get baptised in.

_What do people get baptised in?_

Can’t be a bikini or a pair of boxers; that’d be a bit risqué for a Sunday morning in church.

Those doors are a definite cause for concern. They’re hard to see from his position – partially obscured by an enormous wooden cross, hanging from the ceiling by chains; a dim, vague shape in the darkness, lit only by the slivers of moonlight seeping in through the stained glass windows – and he hasn’t had time to investigate what’s behind them.

_Where the fuck is Cas?_

Dean doesn’t have a watch, and he really doesn’t want to risk lighting himself up like a Christmas tree by checking his phone. He guesses it must be within ten minutes of midnight. Castiel had promised to be here at least five minutes ago. They’d discussed the possibility of what the letter entails, what or _who_ might be here waiting for Dean, what actions he might have to take and Dean’s not really comfortable with any of it. Especially without Cas being here.

Dean flinches as a door swings open. Not one of the side doors, though. It’s further away and straight ahead. It swings open with a whoosh that’s probably pretty quiet, but sweeps like a hollow gust through the stillness of the church.

Dean snaps his gaze straight forward. His stomach churns, and he lets out a sudden, helpless breath.

He can’t see the double-doors at the end of the center aisle; they’re shrouded by the black shadow of the overhanging choir loft. But he’s almost sure that one of those must be the door that he heard swing open.

_Fuck fuck fuck._

Out from the choir loft’s shadow appears a familiar ugly tan trench coat, and Dean releases the breath that he hadn’t realised he was holding.

_Cas._

“Dean?” Castiel’s voice is a harsh intrusion to the otherwise stagnant darkness. It makes Dean wince.

“Yeah.” Dean says softly, wishing Castiel would get the fuck out of sight. “Down here.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he realizes how stupid that statement is, ‘cause there’s no way that Cas can see much beyond the nave.

Dean may not be able to see Castiel’s expression, but he can hear the wry amusement in his voice, “There’s something back here that you need to see.  Use the door to the left of the baptism pool. I’ll meet you there.”

The trench coat disappears, and along with it, so does Dean’s sanity, because he moves away from his – quite frankly, excellent – hiding place, and makes his way towards the innocuous looking door.

 

***

 

True to his word, Castiel meets him behind door number one and Dean’s so thankful for his presence that he almost throws himself at the professor.

“Cas.” It’s a little breathy and harlequin romance-y, but it’s been a stressful week; Dean’s pretty sure it’s allowed.

“Hello, Dean. Follow me.”

It’s a labyrinth of corridors and mystery doors, so much so that Dean’s half expecting David Bowie to pop into existence in skin tight pants. Eventually though, after what feels hours later, Castiel is stopping outside a closed door, one that looks just like the thousands of others they’ve passed back here.

Dean goes to make a quip, but promptly forgets it when Castiel turns to him, all agonising seriousness and says, “Dean. Are you sure about this?”

“Well, that’s pretty tricky there, Monty Hall. Because I haven’t seen what’s behind door number four thousand and thirty six yet.”

Castiel tilts his head and squints at Dean, like _Dean’s_ the one with the problem.

“Cas, it’s fine – “ It’s not; he’s pretty fucking scared, “ – let’s just get this over with.”

“Okay. Your choice.” Castiel opens the door for Dean with a slight flourish, like he’s presenting a prize.

In a way he sort of is.

Immediately, Dean is hit with the metallic stench of blood, layered over the dusty damp smell of mold. It turns his stomach and he brings his arm up to his nose to try and block out the disgusting odor.

From his position in the doorway, the room looks relatively small; maybe twenty by ten, and it’s pretty fucking cold.

Dean steps inside, dull thud of his boots on concrete. There’s a small paraffin lamp providing a dusky light source in the room, which is on a wooden shelf next to another cross.

He drops his arm away from his face, eyes wide. His heartbeat kicks up several notches.

This cross is smaller than the one out in the sanctuary, and it’s planted in the ground. But they’re not the only differences.

Dean has been in Catholic churches. Catholics have Jesus on their crosses, looking miserable, disappointed and bloody. At least this cross doesn’t have that.

No, this cross has the scourge of humanity, rather than the saviour, hanging from it. A man, who, rather than giving his life to save the world, would much rather destroy lives to create his own world.

_Alastair._

Seeing the bastard again – irrespective of the circumstances – is like ripping off a barely-healed scab, a sharp, concise pain that dulls to a thick, sluggish hurt. Dean’s angry, _so fucking angry_ , at himself, at the man who he gave himself over to in naivety, but that’s completely eclipsed by an overwhelming sense of fear that has sweat prickling at his temple and adrenaline surging in his veins, ready to bolt at any moment.

Fear of what exactly, Dean’s not sure. Arms bound by thick iron chains that encircle his wrists twice, biceps, and then snake around the back of the cross, seemingly padlocked, Alastair makes for a sorry sight, bloodied and bruised, chest rising and falling in ragged pulses.

He’s far from the scary bastard that Dean remembers controlling every aspect of his – and by proxy, Sam’s – life for a significant amount of years.

Like this, Dean sees Alastair for what he is. Weak, pathetic, vulnerable.

Human.

_‘He’s just a man. A man who bleeds if you shoot him with a .45.’_

Dean’s tempted to put that to the test right now.

Alastair’s head is tucked down against his chest in either the perfect picture of supplication or sheer exhaustion, and he doesn’t bother to lift it as Dean steps further into the room, with the pacifying presence of Cas at his back.

 “Alastair.” There are fine tremors running through his body, and Dean knows that his voice comes out in a strained, uneven wobble, but his eyes stay dry.  

That gets his attention and Alastair looks up sluggishly, eyes hooded, his battered and bloody face fracturing into a twisted sneer when he finally catches sight of Dean, “’Heaven, I’m in Heaven, and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak…’”

The sheer intensity of the revulsion that he feels for this man makes Dean fight to keep his breathing level, makes him struggle to remain upright as his bones turn to rubber, threatening to leave him limp and more powerless than he already feels. He sways a little on his feet.

“’…And I seem to find the happiness I seek, when we’re out together dancing, cheek to cheek.’”

Dean swallows around the lump in his throat. His palms are sweating and his skin feels like it’s stretched tight over bone and muscle, a meat suit that’s a couple of sizes too small.

He’s spent many an hour thinking about what he’d say to Alastair if he ever saw him again; mostly stuff to do with how little impact Alastair has had on his life, how not-scared of Alastair he is.

Problem is, when he says them in his daydreams, it’s because they’re true. The important part in his fantasies isn’t the actual telling Alastair part, it’s the part where he’s at a place in his life where Alastair really is nothing to him, where he feels no emotion.

Hating requires caring. Apathy does not.

It would be a rather obvious lie to say that he’s not scared of Alastair, so instead he opts for a truth that he can tell from behind the relative safety of his carefully painted on Devil-may-care attitude. He flashes a shaky grin that he knows doesn’t reach his eyes, “You look like shit.”

Alastair’s laugh is grating and painful, like sandpaper dragging across a third degree burn. “And you, as ever, are a vision.”

Castiel tenses and shifts behind Dean, but remains quiet.

_‘He tried to finish you. Now it’s your turn to finish him.’_

Is J expecting Dean to kill Alastair? Is that what the eye for an eye thing was about?

“I’ve missed you. All those prison bitches were nothing compared to you.”

Dean goes to respond with a witty rejoinder, but Castiel shoves forward, jaw clenched so tight his skin’s as smooth as marble, and he stands protectively in front of Dean, cutting off his reply. Voice low and dangerous, Castiel stares Alastair down, and grits out, “You _will_ treat Dean with the respect that he deserves. You _will not_ talk to him like he is nothing. You _will_ behave yourself for once in your pitiful life.”

The quiet, tight anger and promised violence in Castiel’s tone does not go unnoticed by Dean’s cock, which twitches in his jeans, and he tries to convince himself that it’s just the weirdness of the situation. Adrenaline and emotions and shit. Nothing at all to do with Castiel’s clear display of dominance and lack of fear in the face of the cause of Dean’s nightmares.

Alastair’s nose wrinkles, like he’s smelled something bad. He switches his assessing gaze between the two of them, until he finally settles on Dean. “Nice guard dog, Dean. You didn’t have the stones to come here alone. Even with me trussed up like a turkey at Thanksgiving.” He tuts and then turns his attention to Castiel, “And what are you getting out of this arrangement, I wonder? You don’t look like you have a need for money, that’s for sure – not that Dean has money anyway, not on his _librarian_ salary –“

Alastair knew. He _fucking knew_. He knew where Dean was, where he was working. Probably had a goddamn minute-by-minute account of his day, copies of his grocery lists.

The knowledge is terrifying of course, but it’s also strangely comforting at the same time. Mostly because Alastair is here, like Dean always feared, but it’s not of his own volition.

J brought him here. J gifted him to Dean. Already wrapped up.

_He just needs a little bow._

“ – Which realistically leaves the option that you’re making use of his _assets_.”

Castiel balls his hands into fists. It’s the only movement that he makes, but astute as ever, Alastair picks up on it, eyes glinting in the low light, and with a voice soaked in venom, he says, “You do know that he’s broken don’t you? Damaged goods. I’d ask for a refund. It’s your right as a customer, after all.”

Dean feels a hot spike of shame lance through him; a searing sense of humiliation that makes his cheeks burn and his mouth suddenly go dry.

“He doesn’t look broken to me.” Castiel says evenly. Dean desperately hopes that he doesn’t turn around, take one look at Dean and decide to correct that statement. “But that’s the problem isn’t it? There’s no fun in _trying_ – and I say that because it’s clear that despite your best efforts, you didn’t succeed – to destroy something that’s already damaged beyond repair. Easy acquiescence has never been a part of Dean and never will be. And you knew that from the moment you first met him. It’s what made you choose him in the first place.”

Castiel’s little speech has Dean’s heart leaping up into his throat, threatening to choke him. He’s confused and embarrassed, shocked and a little turned on. He’s spent years thinking that Alastair _did_ succeed in tearing him down to nothing. Dean has always thought that he’d need someone to help build him back up from scratch, when in reality, he doesn’t need a construction worker, just an interior designer.

Stupid metaphors aside, the idea is a liberating one.

Alastair hisses, caught. “You have no idea what –“

Castiel cuts him off with calm indifference. “That’s where you’re wrong. I have lots of ideas. Ideas concerning pressure points and your screams of agony, but fortunately – or unfortunately depending on just how poorly you’ve treated Dean in the past – for you, I’m not the one in charge here. Dean is. He’s the one with all the power.”

It’s an effective hand off. Alastair’s mouth snaps shut like a steel trap, gray eyes watching as Castiel steps aside and reveals Dean.

Dean with the power.

Sadly not with the power of voodoo. Otherwise Alastair would have been dead a long time ago. But now could be the time to rectify that.

Power is a funny word. Synonymous with capability and potential; words that Dean ordinarily wouldn’t associate with himself.

The antonym weakness is much more his speed.

_Is it, though?_

Power and choice share a common foundation; they’re both rooted in an individual’s sense of personal control. Something which Dean hadn’t realized that he’d ever had up until now. He’s always felt forced into situations beyond his control. Taking over primary care duties of Sam when his mom died. Taking over all duties when their dad died. Taking whatever ‘job’ he could to put a roof over Sam’s head and food in his stomach. Taking whatever Alastair wanted him to.  No autonomy, no choice.

So maybe a lot of his life has been out of his control. But that changed when he met Cas and J.

Both J and Castiel have given him the choice throughout their relationships. Dean had the option to turn Castiel down when he asked him out, just like he had the option to ignore J’s letter. He chose to take a chance on Castiel. He chose to see where J’s letter would lead.

It’s lead him here.

And with startling clarity, Dean understands exactly what is being offered to him and why it’s so significant.

J is giving him back his power; his ability to choose. Obviously, he wants Dean to choose him, to choose the game, but ultimately, if Dean had said no – at any point – he wouldn’t be here right now. He knew the possibility of what he might face tonight, had discussed all possibilities with Cas, and still he came. Because he _chose_ to. And it has nothing to do with the money; he can honestly say that, because whilst it’s nice and a definite bonus, it never really was.

Things that Dean had thought J was making him do were not forced at all, but instead – maybe slightly warped – opportunities to show Dean just what he could do; things that pushed the limits of what Dean believed himself capable of, made him realise that the only thing stopping him from doing whatever the fuck he wants, was his own sense of internment.

He _could_ kill Alastair, he _could_ set him free.

Of course there are complications that come with either option, but they’re things to take into consideration when making the initial decision.

One that is Dean’s and Dean’s alone to make.

And by his actions tonight, Castiel has made it perfectly clear that he’s willing to stand by Dean no matter the outcome.

J sets up the decisions for Dean to make, Cas supports them.

_Cas and J. J and Cas._

Cas who at first seemed to be pleading with Dean to not go down the road with J, but once he had, seemed perfectly okay with it, encouraging and helping. The morgue last night had been a prime example; without Castiel’s guiding hand he would never have –

“Dean?” Castiel is in his space, head cocked contemplatively, waiting patiently.

There’s a whisper of something behind Castiel’s eyes, before the shutters effectively come down. It’s an anomaly that jars in Dean’s memory; a low-level alarm that has him blinking mindlessly for a few long moments, before he realizes that he needs to respond.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, trying to find his way out of the fog of distant thoughts that he can’t quite grasp. He manages a small, private smile for Cas that is slightly wobbly, but no less genuine for it, and he watches as Castiel relaxes minutely.

When he turns to Alastair, he’s schooled his features into an expression that hits the mark a little closer to grim determination. He wants to ask Alastair who brought him here, but he already knows both answers to that.

Yep. _Both_ answers. Because there are two. And both are technically the right answer, but one is a lot more concerning than the other.

The tip of Alastair’s tongue snakes out and pokes at the cut on his lip. He still looks far too smug for someone who’s strung up six ways from Sunday.

A crazed compulsion is growing in Dean’s chest to simply shoot Alastair between the eyes and have done with it. His breath is coming faster, shallower. He could do it. Just point and shoot. Alastair is right there, and Dean’s heart is beating hard just thinking about it.

He’s mocked by the sudden certainty that if he doesn’t kill Alastair here today, then Alastair _will_ kill him in the future, and yet here he is, fantasizing about it, rather than just fucking _doing it_.

_You’re still not strong enough. Weak, weak, weak._

Something must show in Dean’s expression because the complacent look drops from Alastair’s face and is replaced with one that – if Alastair were anyone else – could be interpreted as genuine fear.

Dean stays silent for a beat longer, not necessarily enjoying Alastair squirm (except that he totally is), but realizing that all it takes to get the upper hand in a situation is to not give the other person what they want. Alastair, like all bullies, just wants a reaction. Blank expressions are not what he deals in; he needs to use emotions to manipulate people into doing what he wants.

A few beats later, Dean’s assessment pays off, and he has to stop himself from grinning like an idiot. It’s the tiniest of triumphs in the grand scheme of things, but it begins the tipping of the scales.

“Are you sure that you know what you’re doing Dean? Have you had a good long think about whatever the Hell this is, because you know I have friends in high places. Friends who will notice my absence.”

Then Dean does smile. Though there’s no humor behind it. “I think ‘friends’ is too strong a term really, Alastair.” With a sudden surge of courage from fuck knows where, Dean steps away from the comfort of the exit and further into the room, advancing on Alastair in a way that hopefully projects confidence, even though he’s nowhere near there yet. “You see, you’ve been gone for six days already and not one of your fuckwit ‘friends’ has so much as called, let alone darkened my doorstep.”

He’s assuming. There’s always the possibility that J took care of any of Alastair’s cronies stupid enough to track Dean down. He’s not quite sure how to feel about that, other than vaguely grateful. Maybe a little invincible right now. Like he’s got a guardian angel. One that’ll go to war for him.

Which, considering they’re in a church, is rather poetic.

“Who says that they wouldn’t go to your brother first? Hmm? He always was good for leverage, I’m sure that hasn’t –”

Dispassion and indifference fall by the wayside as Dean closes the gap between himself and Alastair, reaching for the bastard and smacking the heel of his palm against Alastair’s throat, cutting off his sentence and air, shoving him up against the cross, pinning him. Alastair gurgles and jerks in Dean’s grasp; a satisfying result that gives Dean another jolt of power.

“You’d better be bluffing right now Alastair, because if you’re not then you’re in for quite the night.” Dean’s words are even and blunt-ended. Forced calm.

Despite this very real threat, Dean can feel the rumble of laughter in Alastair’s chest.

Like he’s won.

Maybe in a way, he has. He won a reaction out of Dean.

_Not the one he wants though._

Dean changes the angle of his hold slightly, allowing him to squeeze harder, fingertips bleached white, blunt nails digging into the thin skin of Alastair’s neck.

Alastair thrashes and twists against his bindings and there’s some seriously fucked up sadistic part of Dean that’s enjoying this. That wants to see the life leave Alastair, wants to see it for himself so that he can be sure. Wants him to suffer for every single kid that has gone through what Dean did at the very hands that are currently helplessly pinned down.

_Now he knows how it feels._

Alastair’s eyes are staring to roll back in their sockets when Dean finally realises what the fuck he’s doing and with a harsh expletive, he releases Alastair and takes a step back. His hand hurts, but it’s a dull throb in comparison to the fury throbbing thick and fast in his veins.

The room is filled with the sound of heavy wheezes and the clanking movement of the iron chains as Alastair struggles to pull air into his lungs.

“Dean,” Castiel is there, right behind him, an arm winding itself around Dean’s waist, holding him steady. “It’s okay. Come back to me.”

Dean sags against Cas, heartbeat softening a little, but his eyes don’t – won’t, can’t – leave Alastair.

Castiel’s breath is warm against Dean’s ear, a strange comfort in the circumstances, “It’s okay Dean. You’re doing so well. Such a good boy.” The last few words are murmured vibrations against Dean’s jaw, painfully intimate in spite of the current circumstances.

He wants to turn into Castiel’s embrace, turn his back on Alastair, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

Seemingly sensing this, Castiel leans in again, length of his body warm and reassuring against Dean. “It’s all going to be okay, I promise.”

“It’s never going to be okay Dean.” Alastair cuts in, brutal as a knife wound, voice a harsh rasp, like the sound of tearing paper, “You should never trust anyone who takes an interest in you. Because I may be an evil son-of-a-bitch, but it takes one to know one, and I’m telling you right now that your little boyfriend there? He’s worse than me.”

He smirks, mouth a bloody slash, like he can’t wait for Dean’s reaction.

“Shut up Alastair.” The low-level alarm from before has kicked up a notch.

Alastair’s answering laugh is more of a strangled rattle than anything else, but there’s nothing in the glint of his eyes to say it’s a joke. “I might have groomed you for sex, dear boy, but at least I was honest about it. Whatever he’s grooming you for is far worse –“

“I will shoot you.” Dean growls above the noise in his head. It reverberates off his skull, splintering into individual strands of thought that shriek in different discordant tones. It’s getting harder and harder to ignore.

“Only because that’s what he wants you to do.” There are no edges or angles to Alastair’s words. Just a barefaced statement. Like it’s the absolute, unshakeable truth. If he weren’t in chains, it’d probably be accompanied by a ‘ _eh, what are you gonna do?’_ shrug.

“Explain it to me.” Dean says. Castiel’s arm is still around Dean’s waist, warmth of his palm over the wing of Dean’s hipbone, casually possessive. “Are you telling me that he’s inserted himself into my life for the sole purpose of getting me to kill you?”

Dean’s heart beats in tempo with the pounding against his skull.

“No.” Alastair says after a moment. “Maybe it wasn’t his _sole_ purpose. Just a means to an end. Which, incidentally, is all you’ll ever be to anyone, Dean. It’s what you were to me and it’s what you are to him. He’s going to use you and then discard you, only this time he’ll do what I should have done a long time ago.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the wonderful comments guys, they are very much appreciated.
> 
> This is a shorter chapter because it's pretty heavy going, so be prepared. Flashbacks in this chapter are marked with a '*' at the beginning and end, just because I wasn't sure if it was entirely clear.

Elvis Presley is on the radio crooning about fools rushing in.

Dean’s shaking. It could be the chill of the car’s AC sliding over his skin. His hands are warm though.

_‘…Shall I stay? Would it be a sin?...’_

Wait, no. Can’t be the air-con; they’re in Dean’s Impala, even though he’s not driving. No air-con in the old girl.

The scenery rushes by outside in a fluid merge of shades of gray. It’s too dark to see much beyond the roadside; just blurs and smudges against a backdrop of pristine black.

Dean shoots a quick glance at Castiel. He’s watching the road, face all angles and hollows and shadows, cheekbones sharp as knives. Dean wants to cut himself to ribbons on them, bloody ribbons that’ll bind them together forever, tangled and messy.

There’s no way that they can be anything other than bound now. For better or for worse.

In sickness and in health.

_‘…Darling so it goes, some things are meant to be…’_

Sensing Dean’s eyes on him, Castiel says in a cotton-wool-soft voice, “I told you it would be okay, Dean.”

_‘…Take my hand, take my whole life too…’_

Dean licks his dry lips and looks down at his lap just as they pass a gas station, haze of white lights diluting the night sky.

The speed that they’re going only provides Dean with a quick flash of light before the car is plunged into the suffocating darkness again.

It’s all that he needs though.

Dean’s hands are still warm because Alastair’s blood is drying a second skin on them, tacky in the creases between his fingers, iron-rich and heavy with implication and consequence.

 “Yeah,” Dean’s voice cracks and breaks over the word, throat scraped raw, “Yeah, you did Cas.”

‘… _For I can’t help falling in love with you.’_

 

***

 

The blood is completely dry by the time that they get back to Dean’s place; war paint that’s beginning to split, fissures appearing in the crimson, revealing so much more than just the skin underneath.

It’s not quite the rebirth that was promised, but that doesn’t mean that Dean is disappointed.

Castiel escorts Dean inside the house like he’s an invalid; all hushed tones and murmurs of praise, but a steady, firm guiding hand on Dean’s elbow. It would have the potential to be embarrassing if Dean had any mind to let it be.

Instead, he’s too focused on how everything is still the same. Nothing has changed. There’s still the chip in the glass of the coffee table, the stain that looks like a Stormtrooper’s helmet on the rug near the couch that was here when Dean moved in.

And yet.

Everything is different. Nothing is the same. How could it be?

Flicking lights on as he goes, Castiel steers Dean towards the kitchen to stand in front of the sink, whispering nonsensically in Dean’s ear the whole time, a scrambled signal that’s just white noise interspersed with odd snippets of words.

There’s a bar of soap, white edges still sharp, not gone soft with use.

Castiel positions himself behind Dean, pressing up against his back, arms around his waist, hands reaching for the soap. Dean tries not to think too much about the symbolic significance of this position, tries not to think about the gun, the scalpel, the knife, in his hands and the things that he’s done with them. With Castiel behind him.

With _J_ behind him.

Castiel twists the faucet on.

“Hold out your hands, palms up.”

Dean obeys mindlessly. To not at this stage would be a little redundant.

Castiel carefully grasps Dean’s left wrist and moves it under the stream of cold water. Dean flinches with the not-so-sudden shock of it, pushing back against Castiel, and the sound that Castiel makes is something between a laugh and a moan, rough and heated against Dean’s ear.

Dean’s own reaction is just as involuntary; his cheeks grow hot and he shifts uncomfortably, unsure whether he wants to act on the rapidly dwindling adrenaline by fucking it away, or by _running the fuck away._

It’s mildly amusing – in that sort of detached-from-reality way – to Dean how he seems to frequently find himself in situations that require him to pick the lesser evil from two extremes. There are no shades of gray allowed in Dean’s life.

Pulling Dean’s hand back out from under the water, Castiel begins to lather his palm with the soap. When he’s apparently satisfied with the coverage, he drops the creamy pink bar into the sink, and begins slowly but firmly massaging each one of Dean’s fingers in turn, working the soap into the creases, thumb stroking across Dean’s knuckles.

“I’ve got you, Dean.” Castiel murmurs, voice a low rumble; sex made into a wavelength. It settles along Dean’s nerves, soothing in a way that he can’t begin to explain. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

Maybe Castiel’s definition of ‘okay’ is different from Dean’s.

Castiel repeats the process with Dean’s right hand, firm pressure of his dexterous fingers, deft and powerful, like heaven on Dean’s sore joints. He washes away the pink lather, before switching the faucet off.

The solid warmth of Castiel leaves Dean and he suddenly feels on the edge of something agonizing and new, a feeling that claws at his insides, jagged, angry lacerations that feel all too familiar, except this time he’s on the receiving end. There’s a hollow dripping sound, rhythmic and steady and for a split second, Dean thinks he’s back in the church, panic welling up in his throat, dense and stifling.

It’s just water, not blood. This time.

Castiel finally, _finally_ returns with a dish towel, fresh from the dryer.

“I have to leave you for a bit, Dean.” Castiel says, eyes focused downwards, black lashes fluttering against flawless skin, patting Dean’s hands dry with the thin, scratchy material. Dean’s heart seizes in his chest; _no, that’s not how this works_. Castiel carries on, like nothing’s wrong.

_Like nothing’s changed._

“I won’t be long. I just have a few things that I need to attend to.”

They both know exactly what that means.

Dean doesn’t want Cas to leave. He can’t leave now. Dean knows that it’s irrational and ridiculous as fuck, but he _needs_ Castiel more than Alastair does.

Trying to pinpoint the exact moment when Dean became lost to this, became helpless in the face of everything that he thought he valued, allowed himself to be completely sucked in, will be something for a court-appointed shrink to decipher at a later date, but for right now Dean needs to prove himself, to show Castiel that he’s not going to back down.

“How did you get into the church Cas?”

Castiel freezes. The towel stops moving over Dean’s skin. “What?” His blue eyes flick up to Dean’s, dark and so completely fucking _dangerous_. There’s not only a warning there, but a promise.

It might be Dean’s blood in the water, but he’ll be damned if he’s going down without a fight.

Dean swallows hard, hovering right on the razor-thin edge of his sanity. Though perhaps it’s too late in that respect because insanity by definition is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, expecting Castiel to crack open wide and spill all of his secrets like a goddamn villain in every movie ever – which Castiel has already told him is fucking stupid – and so Dean repeats his question. This time without the pathetic waver, “How did you get into the church Cas?”

Then there’s nothing but a silence that grows heavier with each passing second.

Dean can’t stand it. Can’t stand what it means, what it represents.

“Answer me.” Dean’s voice is a cheap, dollar store imitation of the tone that Castiel used a few nights ago, but it’s all he’s got.

Castiel clears his throat, expression softening and if Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say that there’s a shadow of a smile darkening one side of Cas’s plush mouth. When he finally speaks, it’s with amused nonchalance, “There’s a door to the back of the church. I came in that way. Why does it matter?”

This might be the most twisted game of chicken that Dean’s ever played.

There _is_ a door at the back of the church. Dean checked it. It was locked. The only one that wasn’t locked up tight was the door that Dean came through. If Cas had used that door, Dean would have seen him immediately. Unless he arrived earlier. But Dean would have seen his car out in the lot or parked nearby. There had been no sign of any other vehicles for at least a couple of miles.

It’s yet another lie.

Dean keeps that thought to himself, waits, stares Cas down. Knows that the truth is a victory that he’s going to have to fight hard for, but gaining an inch or two would be a good start.

It’s what Castiel would do; he’d never try for a mile because an inch is all he needs.

Apparently irritated by his own mind-fuckery being used against him, Castiel turns away sharply and tosses the towel in the machine. Slams the door so hard that the lock doesn’t catch, and instead rebounds. “Why would I lie about it?”

“Why indeed.” Dean agrees coolly, calmer than he feels.

_*“He’s going to use you and then discard you, only this time he’ll do what I should have done a long time ago.”_

_“Final warning.” Castiel tells Alastair, but he’s looking at Dean._

_“Poor little Dean,” Alastair taunts, “lurching from one no-good-bastard to the next –”_

_“I will kill you myself.” Castiel snarls._

_“– No you won’t – Can’t see the wood for the trees, can you Dean? Can’t see who you’ve got into bed with this time.”*_

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. The door _was_ locked. He’s certain of it. The main doors at the front were locked, so was the back. Only the side door was open.

 “Dean.”

Alastair was wrong on all counts, but none more so than on Dean not being able to see. There’s nothing wrong with Dean’s eyesight or ability to know when there’s something _not quite right about someone._ In fact, he’d argue that thanks to Alastair, he probably knows better than most, but as per usual, it comes down to his own insecurities. The main issue with self-loathing is that by its very principle, it refuses to allow you to believe in yourself. So instead, you have to believe in someone else. Even if that means going against your gut instinct.

Which is exactly what Dean always seems to do.

He’s his own unreliable narrator.

Maybe his rebirth is less about revenge and more about gaining some self-respect and some self-belief.

“Dean.”

The realization is bittersweet.

_“Dean.”_

“You know what Cas?” Dean says suddenly, “Maybe you _should_ go.”

He means it. Mostly.

Silence. It’s awkward and fraught with potential. For what, Dean isn’t quite sure – whether it’s sex or violence – but either way he isn’t sticking around to find out.

Sensing that Dean is about to make his exit, in a blur of movement so fast that Dean barely sees it coming, Castiel grabs for him, shoving him up against the nearest wall, pinning Deans’s hips with his own, painful bite of the doorframe against Dean’s spine.

The lines of Cas’s face seem sharper, eyes alive and burning with fury and desire as he leans in close, his lips a whisper away from Dean’s, “Is that what you really want, hmm Dean?”

Castiel’s question – no, statement, ‘cause he already knows the answer – is punctuated with a roll of his pelvis, hard line of his erection digging into the cut of Dean’s hip.

God help him, no, it’s not what he wants.

But this isn’t about what he wants anymore. Hasn’t been since he was back in that church.

_*“What do you want to do, Dean?”_

_It’s yet another choice._

_Dean should probably think about it long and hard, because whatever happens here tonight, the point of no return has already been reached. Any decisions from here on out have the potential to make his life much better or much worse._

_He finds the answer comes relatively easily. “I want him to not be a problem anymore.”_

_“You have the power, Dean.”_

_It's that straightforward, apparently._

_Incredulous, Dean asks, “You can’t seriously be okay with this?”_

_“He hurt you.” Castiel says, like it’s obvious. Like anyone who hurts Dean should be subjected to torture and the very real possibility of death. “I came here tonight knowing what the outcome might be. Same as you. We **need** to do what it takes to keep you safe, Dean. You deserve that at the very least.”*_

_‘At the very least.’_ Like Dean deserves more.

And for the very first time in his life, Dean is beginning to believe it.

“Yeah.” Dean says quiet, but firm, and this close he can see every single muscle twitch in Castiel’s face, the flicker of surprise that he quickly tamps down. Dean clears his throat and in a louder, clearer voice, says, “Yes… I want you to go, Cas.”

_Everything’s changed._


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to you all. Thanks guys.

Sleep doesn’t come easily. Dean’s tired to and beyond the point of madness.

It may be the first night in twelve years that Dean hasn’t had the specter of Alastair looming over him, but from this angle, the trade-off is almost worse.

He tosses and turns, rucking up his bedsheets, waiting for Cas to return, furious and beautiful and indignant. Kind of wants him to, but hopes that he doesn’t.

At around three a.m., less than an hour after Cas leaves, Dean flings himself out of bed with an exasperated huff and unsteadily makes his way back downstairs. There’s only one thing on his mind and that’s the overwhelming urge to get drunk enough so that he doesn’t have to think about his hands, how his fingernails still bear minuscule traces of Alastair’s blood.

He deliberately ignores the envelope sitting innocuously on the coffee table as he pads past on his way to the kitchen to grab a couple of bottles of Jack. He can’t bring himself to go through the charade of opening it and pretending to wonder about his mysterious letter sender.

It’s not so much a whodunit as whothefuckdoesCasthinkheis.

Certainly not who Dean thought he was.

Well. Who Dean didn’t want to think he was.

_J._

Which raises more questions than it answers.

Like, the one that’s been tripping up Dean’s thoughts for the last hour: Just how the fuck did he get into Dean’s house the night that he left the note in his robe? How did he know about Sam? How did he know about Alastair before Dean told him?

In fact, despite feeling pretty secure in the knowledge that Cas is J, Dean is more in the dark about the whole situation than he was before.

And it’s clear that Castiel is less interested in the truth than he is in playing games.

Well, that’s fine. Dean might have had to press start to play a game that Cas chose and was already well practiced at, but that doesn’t mean a damn thing.

He drops down onto the couch, tosses the bottle cap somewhere over his shoulder – _won’t be needing that_ – and takes a deep swig of the amber liquid, not stopping until he needs to come up for air.

The idiom ‘playing with fire’ seems rather apt in the current situation, but it never used to stop him, and it’s certainly not going to now. Less – or perhaps more – appropriately, Dean is going to be fueling that fire in the hopes of finding something in the ensuing carnage and among the embers.

Castiel has thrown down the gauntlet. Dean is picking it up.

All bets are off.

 

***

 

When Dean wakes up, it’s almost like a flashback to a time before Castiel. And for a blissful few moments as the light splinters in through the front room blinds, Dean forgets. He runs his tongue across his teeth. They feel scuzzy and gross. His head throbs. On the coffee table, there are two empty bottles of whisky.

Next to the envelope. Which is still unopened.

“Fuck.” He groans, rolling off the sofa, muscles rebelling and joints aching.

He groans again as he gradually clambers to his feet. Stretches. Starts moving away from the couch, grimacing with each step as he hobbles, bent over, up the stairs and towards the bathroom.

He cycles through the list of things that he needs to do to get himself feeling vaguely human again. It’s not so much a distraction as it is necessity. Sometimes, it takes a while for brain function and memory to return after an epic night of drinking to forget. Which is just proof that the system works, really.

The first thing he’s gonna do when he gets to the bathroom – if he gets there – is pee. Next is brushing his teeth. Or should it be the other way around? ‘Cause admittedly, his teeth are pretty gross.

_Nope. Pee, brush, shower, coffee._

He stops about two stairs from the top.

Should he do the coffee first, so it’ll be ready?

_No, no, no. It can wait. Not turning around now._

Finally making it to the bathroom in one piece – though his brain feels like it’s shattering into a thousand – Dean makes his way to the toilet, pees, flushes, and then shuffles over to the medicine cabinet. He forces himself to stand up straight. He gazes at his reflection in the mirror through blurry eyes as he scrubs his teeth.

His hair’s sticking up in messy strands, pressed flat on the left side where he must have slept on it, his eyes are murky, and cheeks hollow.

A vision of loveliness.

He looks haunted… He looks like he’s killed someone.

Dean chokes out a laugh, thick glob of toothpaste landing next to the cold water faucet. And then that’s it. He doubles over, toothbrush and foam still in his mouth, and laughs. It’s not the happy laughter of someone who has just heard the best joke ever. No, it’s the frantic, hysterical laughter of someone who’s just realized that they themselves are the best joke ever; a punchline to someone else’s sick idea of humor.

It’s painful, but sort of liberating in a fucked up kind of way.

Clarity is one of those double-edged swords that those who have never had anything to hide assume can only be a good thing. But Dean knows differently.

Because, despite his delirium last night, he’d been crystal clear on one thing; he and Cas are bound no matter what, for better or for worse. It’s not like Dean can go to the police: _‘Oh hey, officer. This professor gave me lots of money to do some bat-shit crazy stuff, like breaking and entering a morgue and cutting up a body, then he held my fucking hand whilst I plunged a carving knife through my ex’s heart. Oh, oh oh, and then I helped him shove the body into the trunk of his crappy Ford. Can you help me? I may have also kneecapped someone in a graveyard.’_

They’d see it as a goddamned joint enterprise; a folie à deux.

Maybe it is.

Dean has his own ideas on whether that was Castiel’s intention and therefore insurance in case Dean rebelled, or a happy coincidence that Dean turned out to need little encouragement when it came to tackling tramps and breaking the law, but for now he has to assume the former.

Castiel doesn’t strike Dean as someone who leaves many things to chance.

Certainly not whether Dean would kill Alastair or not. Or at least want Alastair to be dead and allow Castiel to kill him on Dean’s behalf.

He can’t help but feel like some kind of prize fight for his soul took place last night and that Cas was the victor. Not only because he’s the only one left alive, but because he won _Dean_.

It’s more than a little twisted.

And yet.

And yet, Dean isn’t running scared. He’s just really fucking angry that Cas lied. He feels _betrayed_.

Which may not be the reaction that a lot of people would have upon discovering that rather than flowers and chocolates, their love interest prefers English literature and murder, but each to their own.

_Ah. Who says romance is dead?_

Done with his giggle fit, Dean spits his mouthful of foam into the sink.

It would be funny if it weren’t so excruciatingly tragic. The first person who turns out to give a damn about Dean is a fucking psychopath.

Maybe he should have seen it coming. Is it his fault for projecting some kind of vibe? To attract one asshole is bad luck, but surely to attract two is a bit telling?

No.

Down that road lies madness. And in the words of Pratchett: ‘It’s a very short road.’

Being his own worst enemy hasn’t worked out well for him so far, so it’s time for Dean to pull himself together and form a united front against whatever weapons Castiel has in his arsenal.

He bends over the sink to rinse his mouth, cupping up water with his hand.

Dean proved last night that he’s done taking Castiel at face value. Done forcing himself to believe lies because the truth is easier to hide from.

If Castiel wants to get near Dean again, he needs to start being honest. Which might be easier said than done, especially considering that Castiel is clearly extremely intelligent, but also rather damaged – one out of two traits in common ain’t bad –  but Dean isn’t entirely opposed to covert ops to try and gain back some lost ground.

Hence why he’s come up with a plan that only someone half delirious from lack of sleep and with the phantom feel of their ex’s blood on their hands could conjure.

Stepping over to the tub, he spreads the bathmat on the floor and turns on the water for the shower.

The oblivion that Dean had been hoping to drink himself into the previous night had come up on him in a slow crawl, and so he’d had plenty of time to think long and hard about tactics and just how to telegraph some of Castiel’s moves.

Trying to see the world through Castiel’s eyes, when his own vision had been swimming with whisky was a pretty neat trick, but some of Dean’s best ideas have come to him in the form of drunken philosophy. And in the cold light of day, he’s pretty confident that his plan is relatively solid; not too risky, but a good place to start.

Satisfied that the temperature of the water isn’t gonna boil him alive or freeze him to death, he steps into the tub, under the shower spray, rolling the glass door shut behind himself.

Screwing his eyes shut, he turns into the hot spray. It hits him full in the face, warmth of it soaking into his skin. He bows his head, letting the spray soak and mat his hair, heating his scalp. He reaches out for the soap and washcloth, scrubs at his skin with the citrus stuff, before rinsing and repeating until he’s pink and feeling a little too fresh.

It’s impossible to be in the shower and not think about the night that J – Cas – broke in and watched him as he jerked off.

Had Castiel stood there and watched him? Did he get off on it too?

Dean’s dick gives an interested twitch.

He’s not into exhibitionism, he really isn’t. But there’s a part of him – a rather large part – that’s glad it was Cas and not some fucking nutjob.

_Cas is a fucking nutjob._

Well, yeah alright. But he’s not a stranger. Not much. Though Dean kinda feels that way at the moment. Because really, what does he know about him? That he’s a professor at the university? It would be hard to fake all those students knowing him, so Dean’s pretty sure about that fact at least.

He may or may not have siblings. Could have been part of the bullshit story that he’d spun Dean.

Beyond that? Just his name and what car he drives when he’s in the mood for a spot of righteous murder/breaking and entering/corpse pilfering.

Dean sighs and switches off the water.

_Are we having fun yet?_

 

***

 

So he and Cas may have swapped schedules a few days back. Just so that Dean would always have an idea of where Cas was if he needed him. Though, knowing what he does now, it was more likely the other way around; for Castiel to keep tabs on Dean. But that doesn’t matter anymore.

What does matter is that Dean knows today, Castiel has a 9 a.m. literary class with some first years, followed by a prose seminar at 11 with a small group of third years. Then he has a blank period, cross-hatched with the word ‘Marking’ written above it. The afternoon is pretty quiet, but not so much that Castiel has enough time to return home for lunch or anything like that.

The life of an academic is a hard one apparently.

When he’s not busy fending off advances from students.

Dean feels the tight coil of jealousy in his gut. It’s ridiculous and perhaps more than a little unnecessary – Castiel has made his intentions concerning Dean more than clear – but still. Rationality kind of fell by the wayside as they were forcing Alastair’s body into the tiny trunk of a blue Ford.

Though, some would argue it was a long time before that.

_Focus._

It’s just after nine thirty when Dean decides to put the first part of his plan into action. His hand is only slightly shaking when he dials Castiel’s home number. Obviously, after the night that J – _Cas_ – crept into Dean’s house, he had programmed Cas’s cell into his phone, but he figured that he wouldn’t have much use for the home number.

Until now.

Which is why he’s thankful that Castiel’s card had still been on his nightstand. Last night, he’d squinted at it, trying to decipher any clues. Like maybe the initial ‘J’ written in invisible ink or some shit.

Sadly, nothing that overt.

He listens to the ringing at Cas’s end of the line.

It must’ve rung at least eight or nine times now.

Cas’s place is a twenty minute drive from here. Dean knows this because drunk Dean has some epic ideas, and he’d looked Cas up in the phone directory. Yep, nice and old school. Castiel lives in a fancy house on the other side of town.  The plan is for Dean to be there and back before the seminar is over. Hopefully with time to spare.

Twelve rings.

Taking it at face value, Dean could assume that the only reason he hasn’t been to Cas’s place is because his house is definitely closer to the library and most of the places that he’s been sent by J.

But Dean is so _done_ with taking things at face value. It’s not worked out well for him so far.

He wonders if Castiel has an answering machine set to take messages after the fifteenth or twentieth ring.

Not that anyone would stay on long enough to hear it.

Besides, his phone must have rung at least twenty five times by now.

_More like thirty._

Dean has to be sure.

He waits for a few more rings, then hangs up.

It’s about the closest to being sure that Castiel isn’t home that he’s going to get for now.

 

***

 

Dean parks across the street from the house listed as Castiel’s address. It’s in a well-kept neighborhood with large houses and landscaped lawns, some of them even boasting flowerbeds around the edges. All very quaint. Cas’s place is the largest one at the end of the cul-de-sac. It’s not a mansion by any means, but it is a decent size. Certainly in comparison to Dean’s tiny place.

Nice and normal. So far.

Castiel’s Ford isn’t in the driveway. There aren’t any other cars on or near the driveway either. Though it doesn’t exclude the garage.

Stomach churning and palms clammy, Dean exits his car, shutting the door, but not bothering to lock it – not in this neighborhood – and strides swiftly up the driveway, gravel crunching underfoot. He redials the number he’d used half an hour ago. As he gets closer to the front door, the faint jangling of the telephone from inside grows louder.

Definitely the right place then.

He risks a glance around, phone held up to his ear. There are enough people milling about who will notice the strange black monster car parked on the street and ask questions.

_Kind of the point._

He waits a few rings, then hangs up. He shoves his cell into his jeans pocket.

Cupping his hands against the front window to the left of the door, Dean peers in.

It’s all mahogany wood paneling and antique furniture.  Which, whilst not completely incongruous with Cas’s character, is still a little odd. He’d assumed that Castiel would be all modern, clean lines. Nothing that would require much upkeep.

Unless of course he has a housekeeper. But that would involve explanations of how his clothes end up looking like those of a skilled butcher rather than a professor. And Dean’s still pretty sure that his initial assessment of J – that he doesn’t kill indiscriminately – is the correct one, so no murdering maids who ask too many questions.

“Can I help you?”

Dean startles, genuinely surprised that someone has picked up on his presence here this quickly. He straightens up and turns around, bracing himself for a living, breathing representative of white, middle-class America. He’s not disappointed. At the end of the driveway is a man with dark slicked back hair, wearing a pair of slippers and a stripy bathrobe. He has a newspaper tucked under his right arm.

Dean gapes. He can’t help it.

This place is a goddamn caricature of a fifties nuclear suburb. Like if you asked someone who had never been to suburban America to describe it, this is what they would come up with.

The only thing missing is the white picket fences. Perhaps that was a step too far for Cas.

Dean throws on his most charming smile and aims it in Brylcream’s direction. “I certainly hope so.” He tries for jaunty and it seems to hit the mark, because the man’s expression perks up from suspicious to friendly. “I’m looking for Professor Novak. I’m a T.A. at KU and we were supposed to be going over lecture plans.”

The man squints at Dean, then something seems to fall into place in his mind and he clicks his fingers, “Say, are you Dean?”

Dean doesn’t bother to hide his surprise. “Yes? Has Cas mentioned me?”

The man beams like he’s been asked how he keeps his rose bush just so darn healthy,“Well, he keeps to himself most of the time, but a month or so back, I managed to get a conversation out of him as he was on his way out. To pick you up from work, he said. At the library?”

_A month or so?_

“Err, yeah.” Dean rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, scrambling to cover his lie. “I work there part time. A T.A.’s salary needs a bit of subsidizing, y’know?” He clears his throat, not sure how to accuse this man of lying without actually doing it. “Are you sure that it was a month ago?”

The man doesn’t hesitate. “Well, yes. In fact it was the fifteenth, ‘cause it was the day after my little Susie’s birthday party. She was five. They grow up so fast, don’t they?”

The fifteenth. It’s now the tenth. Yep. Damn near a month.

So Dean may have known of Castiel for far less time than Castiel has known of him. Which goes some way to explaining his knowledge of Dean’s background. He’ll have had plenty of time to do some recon.

“They sure do.” Dean bluffs lamely, mind reeling.

Brylcream is eyeing Dean with an expression that Dean can’t quite place. “Castiel has been living here for quite a while you know, and you’re the first person outside of his family that he’s mentioned.”

Dean doesn’t miss where the stress is laid. This community may be all apple pie and two-point-four-kids, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not ‘progressive’. He can just imagine the neighborhood watch meeting where they discussed the possibility of rainbow bumper stickers and whether they were a bit too scandalous or not.

Can’t be giving out the wrong impression.

“We’re just good friends.” Dean lies, though not in the way that the guy thinks.

“Of course.” Brylcream says, all-knowing skepticism written into every line of his face. “And Hell is just a sauna.”

Dean reddens, heat creeping up his cheeks. Which is utterly ridiculous. “Um. Do you know where he is?”

“Work, I suspect. His car left over an hour ago.”

“Oh.” Dean pretends to look disappointed. “Know when he’ll be back?”

“Sorry to say that I don’t. He keeps some rather odd hours. But surely if you two work at the university together you’d know better than me?” He keeps his tone just this side of accusatory.

“For the most part, but we’d arranged this.” Dean says wistfully. If the guy – quite rightly – thinks that they’re fucking, then Dean could be using it to his advantage, so he adds, with a tone of lovesickness that would make a teenage girl blush, “Maybe he forgot to call.”

Brylcream’s expression softens into one of pity. Dean hates it, hates that look. Hates what it signifies, but for now he needs it, so he deals. “Had a spat? I’m sure you’ll resolve it; I think he’s rather taken with you.”

Yeah, Dean’s beginning to think that too.

“Alright, thank you… um? Sorry, what’s your name?”

“Alan,” The man extends his hand. His grip is firm, fingers slightly calloused with ‘honest, hard work’ no doubt. “Alan Hoban.”

Dean suspects that Alan Hoban’s doorbell plays The Star Spangled Banner when you press it.

“Thank you Alan. Nice to meet you. If you see Cas when he gets home, could you get him to give me a call, please?” Realistically, this has gone better than Dean could have hoped for.

“It was a pleasure meeting you too Dean. Of course, if I see him, I’ll pass on the message.”

Dean’s willing to bet that Castiel will get the message all right.

 

***

 

By the time that Dean gets to his late shift at the library, it’s just gone two and all things considered, he’s feeling remarkably positive, if a little tired. His mind has barely stopped throwing up possibilities and road blocks whenever he tries to think about Castiel and Alastair and the whole sorry mess, but aside from that – and the ever-present concern about cops turning up to ask him about Alastair’s disappearance – Dean is doing okay.

He’s reasonably certain that Castiel will have taken precautions in regards to his kidnap of Alastair, but Dean can’t know that for certain, so he has to be prepared for the worst. Though, if the worst is just some vague and gentle questioning from a couple of officers who make him a cup of tea before starting with, _‘Now, we don’t want to scare you Mr. Winchester, but…’_ , then Dean can deal. Hopefully.

As Dean approaches the desk, he sees that Bela is dealing with an old dear who seems to be getting confused between Tom Clancy and Thomas Hardy.

Dean manages a small smile at that. A drop of normality in the ocean of insanity. Though, he’s beginning to realize just how subjective the concept of ‘normality’ truly is.

Either way, it’s a nice change of pace from the past few nights.

He busies himself at the desk, talking to patrons, checking out books. It’s not until someone asks for the Dick Francis he knows Dorothy checked out that his mind stutters and skips. He smiles politely at the middle-aged soccer mom who asked and informs her that it should be back soon. He makes a note to give her a call. It’s all part of the service.

There’s a lull at about half three when the library virtually empties in preparation for the school rush and Dean seizes the opportunity.

Apropos of nothing, he says, loud enough for Bela to hear, “Dorothy Wilton’s Dick Francis book was due back already.” It’s not like her to be late. And the fact that – on thinking about it – Dean’s pretty sure that she hasn’t been in at all over the past few days, missing out on her daily gossip session and sexual harassment of Dean. It’s a little concerning.

_She’s probably just ill._

But there’s something there that Dean’s sure he heard when he wasn’t even listening. He can’t quite put his finger on it.

Bela looks up from the books she’s shelving over by the kids section, and in her crisp British accent says, “Haven’t you heard?”

Unless it’s about the bird, then no. “No?”

“Good ole Dorothy popped her clogs a few days ago.”

Dean is pretty sure that’s English speak for dying. “ _What?_ ”

“Yeah.” Bela says, resuming her shelving. “At first they thought it might have been a heart attack, but now they’re treating her death as suspicious.”

Dean can count on one hand just how many times in his life that he’s been rendered speechless. But it happens now. Who would want to kill Dorothy?

_Maybe Linda Beufort finally caught wind of the too-much-make-up slander._

But seriously. What a shame. Dorothy was a gentle old lady, not much money. He can’t imagine why anyone would target her.

Dean wants to ask Bela more, but it’s nothing that he can’t look into when he gets home tonight, so he leaves it at a shake of the head and: “What is the world coming to?”

_What indeed._

He tries to push it to the back of his mind, with all the other shit, but dissociation isn’t as easy as Cas makes it look and so by the time it’s almost the end of Bela’s shift at seven, Dean’s mentally exhausted and ready to go home.

He’s just making himself a cup of coffee in the tiny break room to the back of the library when Bela pokes her head around the doorframe. She flashes Dean a wry grin as she buttons up her coat.

“Dean, there’s a rather handsome gentleman asking for you at the front desk and if you don’t get yourself there in the next thirty seconds, then I might just have to snap him up for myself.”

Dean had been expecting this, but it still takes him by surprise a little.

 “I’m busy.” Dean replies, clearly not as he lazily stirs his coffee, hoping to stall, even just for a second. He needs to gather his wits and pull himself up by his bootstraps if he’s going to prove to be a worthy adversary.

Castiel has been pretty angry last night after Dean had told him to leave and now that Dean has potentially antagonized him further, there’s no telling what he might do.

Though, Dean has a pretty good idea.

“That’s okay.” A familiar voice says, low and molten. “I’ll come to you.”

“Staff only behind here.” Dean says stupidly. Of course Castiel ignores him. Castiel plays by his own rules. Like a psychotic James Dean.

_What if his middle name is James?_

“I’ll leave you to it then boss.” Bela chirps happily, barely acknowledging Dean, instead focused entirely on Castiel. “See you in the morning!”

“Yeah.” Dean says weakly. “See you tomorrow Bela.”

_Unless you meet with an untimely accident._

And then he’s alone with Cas.

Cas, who is in his space, backing Dean quite literally into a corner, until Dean can feel the edge of the counter digging into his ass cheek. Castiel’s voice is pitch-black with menace when he says, “I hear from a reliable source that you visited my house today.”

_God bless you, Alan Hoban._

Dean tries for incredulous, frowning in faux confusion as he meets Castiel’s eyes. “What?”

Castiel lets out a sound that can only be described as a growl. He presses in closer and Dean has to fight not to react. There’s no pretending that the charge between them is anything other than sexual, but that doesn’t mean that Dean will give himself over to it like he has before, “Don’t play games with me, Dean.”

Dean bites back on the urge to tell Castiel that he was the one to start this bullshit; Dean’s just evening the playing field. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a library to run.” He makes a token effort to move away, but Castiel doesn’t relent an inch. Not that Dean was realistically expecting him to. Instead, they’re nose to nose and Dean is reminded of the night that he found out Alastair was missing. Tonight, Castiel doesn’t smell of Dean’s shampoo; he smells like everything that Dean has every wanted, rich and crisp in every thread of his stupid ugly trench coat.

In a voice that is lethal to Dean’s self-control, Castiel says, “You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about.”

“No, I don’t.” Dean says slowly, all feigned innocence – which he has to be careful not to layer on too thick – and then adds, “Why would I lie about it?” It’s casual, offhand. Like anyone listening in wouldn’t be able to hear the difference.

Cas will though.

Dean waits for the desired effect to hit and when it does, he watches Castiel’s expression change and the corners of his mouth turn up in a small, wicked smile.

“ _Why indeed_.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, not sorry.

Stepping behind the circulation desk after his healthy lunch of a fried steak sub and a rather large slice of apple pie, Dean immediately notices the bunch of red roses. They’re innocuous in and of themselves, but of course intention is nine tenths of the law – or is that possession? He’ll have to ask Sammy – and Dean knows exactly what the aim is here.

There’s no card. Doesn’t need it. Dean knows who they’re from.

Generally, Bela isn’t the type to go all dewy-eyed at some well-picked plants, but then apparently the bastard just has that effect on people. “Tall, dark and handsome left these for you.” She smiles beatifically like she’s the recipient of the damn things. “He told me not to bother you when you were on lunch; he wanted them to be a surprise.”

Dean just bets he did.

On the bright side, they look fresh. So not the ones from Babe’s grave, then.

He should probably be grateful for that at least.

                                                                                                                                             

***

 

The next day Dean’s half-expecting to find a still-beating heart on the steps of the library when he goes to open up, keys in hand, breath misting in the chilly air.

There’s nothing.

Dean’s a little disappointed.

Once he’s inside, he taps out a quick text: _Where’s your commitment to the cause, Cas?_ _I want hearts and carousels here. WWDPD? (What would Dr. Phibes do?)_

Of course, he’s aware that Castiel is liable to take this literally, and there’s a small part – a part that’s increasingly becoming larger – that kind of hopes he will. And not just for the purposes of winning the game. Because of course, the second that Castiel does something truly incriminating, Dean will be all over that shit. He’s just got to be patient – not really a forte, but Dean’s willing to give it a shot in this case – and in the meantime do some snooping of his own to find any chink in Castiel’s rather formidable armor.

 

***

 

There aren’t too many Gabriel Novaks living in Las Vegas, married to showgirls named Jewell. In fact there’s just one. The mugshot accompanying the news article that cites indecent exposure as the reason for Gabriel’s arrest is unflattering at best, but there’s something in the lazy slope of his grin that has Dean amused.

Finding Anael – Anna – Milton, née Novak, turns out to be almost as straightforward; she’s there on the editor’s page of a glossy magazine, all red hair and perfect teeth.

Neither of them really look like Castiel. But that’s not saying much. He and Sam don’t share many physical traits, mostly because Sam was conceived in a laboratory somewhere using Sasquatch DNA.

However, the whole thing does seem a little too easy and Dean can’t help but feel like a victory that isn’t hard won can’t really be called a victory at all. Certainly where Castiel is concerned.

So rather than taking it at face value – _and look at him learning from his mistakes_ – Dean decides to follow up his research with a carefully placed call to Nevada.

He has a vague idea of what he’s going to say, but if he’d planned and rehearsed it down to the letter, then he’d end up tripping up over himself and sounding foolish. Best to sound natural and keep it as close to the truth as possible.

On the seventh ring, the phone is answered by a ridiculously honey-drenched voice, “’Lo? You’ve reached Gabriel’s goodies. Well not yet of course, that’ll cost you extra. If that is you Cassie, then I do not apologize.”

Dean splutters. _Cassie._ “Um, no.”

“Ah, apologies my friend. My brother lives in Kansas – I recognized the area code.”

Well that pretty much answers that one then.

“I’m – um, actually a friend of your brother’s.” Dean says. He’s quick to add, “Don’t worry, he’s fine and everything. I’m not phoning with bad news,” because he knows what it’s like to have a younger brother living on the other side of the country.

“Good. Though, I wasn’t aware Castiel has friends,” Gabriel says, followed by the sound of lips smacking together. “I mean, people he looks down on with less disdain than others, sure. But friends?”

Dean bites back a smile. “He seems nice enough.”

_Aside from the lies and murder._

Or maybe in spite of them.

“Yeah, he only gets away with shit ‘cause he’s pretty.”

Dean can’t really argue with that.

“So what can I do for you ‘friend of Cassie’?”

Dean sucks in a deep breath. Exhales slowly. Decides to go with the truth. “Okay, so this might sound a bit weird, but I only really phoned to check that you really were his brother. Cas – err, he has a habit of telling half-truths and I just wanted to make sure that this was a whole one?”

There’s a long pause at the other end. Dean pulls his cell away from his ear to check that they’re still connected. They are. “You still there?”

“You’re not Dean are you?”

Dean’s brow furrows. “Er, yeah. How’d you know?” After all, it’s not outside the realms of possibility that Castiel has spoken to his brother and mentioned Dean, but knowing Cas, that’s not what this is.

Gabriel sighs. “Jesus Christ.”

Dean stays quiet, hoping that Gabriel will elaborate.

He does. Sort of. “Jesus fucking Christ, Castiel.”

Dean grips his phone a little tighter, “What?”

“Listen, kid. Stay as far away from my brother as you can get.”

Whilst Dean objects to being called a kid – the article had put Gabriel’s age at a mere six years older – he’s more preoccupied with the almost anger in Gabriel’s voice; not aimed at Dean, but instead at his brother.

“Why?”

Gabriel must hear something in what Dean isn’t saying aloud, sense something that means leaving Castiel isn’t an option any more.

“You already know the answer to that, don’t you?”

There are a myriad of reasons that Dean can think of, but he can almost guarantee that none of them are the same as Gabriel’s “I’m gonna need you to be a touch more specific.”

Gabriel huffs a laugh. “Glad to see that you’re not _completely_ stupid.” There’s the sound of rustling clothes, then someone talking in the background. Dean can’t make out what’s being said, but he listens in any way. The other voice sounds like a woman. “Yeah, yeah. Alright. Gimme five.” Gabriel suddenly says, sounding a little further away. Then, louder, to Dean he says, “My brother means well, but once he gets an idea in his head he’s like a dog with a bone, you catch my drift?”

“Kind of.” Dean answers honestly.

“Alright. I’ll narrow it down for you. Do you believe in coincidences?”

“No.”

“Fate?”

Fate implies a lack of choice. Dean’s recently learned that there’s always a choice. No matter how shitty, “…No.”

“There’s your answer. Make of it what you will. I’ve gotta go Dean-o. Nice to finally speak to you. And don’t go mentioning this little conversation to our Cassie. You know how he can be.”

Gabriel hangs up and Dean sits there on his couch, staring blankly at nothing, with his phone still up to his ear, listening to the dial tone, feeling like he’s missing a puzzle piece roughly the size of the Chrysler building.

 

***

 

There’s not a moment that goes by in the next few days without Dean worrying that he’s made either a serious misjudgment of Castiel’s character or just the plain old wrong decision. Gabriel’s words have confused more than they’ve clarified and Dean’s only just beginning to unravel a possible meaning, but he could be way off base.

He needs to do a lot more research around Cas, find out more, try and plug the gaps, but he’s at kind of a dead end. He could try Anna, but he has a feeling that a penchant for cryptic bullshit runs in the family.

He thinks about enlisting the help of Sam who undoubtedly has access to better resources, but decides against it. He’s not sure where he would even begin to explain the insanity that he’s currently tangled up in.

He’d only end up with an unwanted lecture and a concerned phone call every day for the next month. At the very least. More than likely his brother would end up representing him in a court of law, with Dean pleading insanity.

As it stands, since the ‘disappearance’ of Alastair, Dean’s received a text every evening from Sam checking up on him, making sure that he’s alright.

Dean almost wants to put him out of his misery and just tell his brother that Alastair’s six feet under somewhere in Kansas. Where he fucking belongs. But that would kind of give the game away.

_Maybe just a little._

Well, whatever happens, Dean is mostly convinced that he’s seen the ‘worst’ in Castiel and from here on out, all he has to do is slot the pieces together to create the picture of Cas that he has in his head. It’s all about working backwards in order to move forwards.

And Sam says that Dean isn’t progressive.

Perhaps this isn’t quite what Sam had in mind when he’d suggested that Dean needed to find someone, but nobody’s perfect – Dean less so than most – and whilst it may not be everybody’s idea of romance, Dean’s experience is somewhat warped in that department, so what’s to say this is wrong?

Some people buy matching Christmas sweaters.

If inane dollar-store home plaques are to be believed, relationships are all about give and take. Castiel has – whether deliberately or inadvertently – _given_ Dean a goddamn sense of worth, has made him want to believe in himself in a way that he hasn’t since he was a teenager. He’s _given_ Dean his life back. He may have had to _take_ someone else’s to achieve it, but Alastair was a stain on this world; a scumbag who deserved everything that he got that night and more.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that’s not what was intended when the plaque was painted in a sweatshop in Indonesia or wherever, but at least Dean’s twisted message is a genuine one. It’s certainly not mass-produced to the point of complete dilution.

So yeah, maybe Dean’s pissed off and maybe he wants Cas to suffer for this ridiculous game of cat and mouse that he’s forced Dean into through his pointless bullshit and smokescreens, but ultimately Castiel has proven himself ten times over in terms of his feelings for Dean.

Every time Dean gets close to backing out, he just thinks of the way that Castiel looks at him; like Dean’s something worth looking at, like there’s nothing else in the world that Cas would rather being doing than counting Dean’s freckles.

Dean’s a small-town librarian, with a shitty, damaging past and a drinking problem. Before Castiel, each day that slid by was just another excuse to drink. Now, there’s something to look forward to. There are puzzles to solve, there are gorgeous, yet infuriating, professors to antagonize.

Which. Speaking of.

Dean’s always found that there are two different ways of doing things: the easy way, and the complicated, Rube Goldberg way. Now normally, he’d be all for the direct A-to-B route; straightforward, no messing. But again, this isn’t his game that he’s playing. It’s Castiel’s and Cas is a fan of intricacies that wouldn’t even occur to someone else.

So he’s here at the university, dressed down in his scruffiest pair of jeans and an old Metallica shirt with a dime-sized hole in the armpit. It’s a bit tight across the chest, but Dean would be lying if he said that it wasn’t at least part of the point.

The main part however, is that he’s supposed to be a student. He could have just used the schedule (which is seriously proving its usefulness) and caught Cas on his lunch or something, but Dean would much rather catch him off-guard. Of course, he could have always come in here, gone to the reception and declared himself as Cas’s boyfriend or friend or whatever, but he doesn’t know exactly where the land lies between himself and Cas or Cas and his employment terms.

Plus, this is so much more fun.

The man sitting behind the reception desk in the humanities building has thinning gray hair, and a portly frame which is testing the integrity of his sweater vest to the maximum. He gives a warm smile though, which Dean returns, making sure to keep a nervous edge to it.

“Um, hi.” Dean says, fiddling with the straps of his backpack, picking at a loose thread in the stitching. “I was wondering if you could tell me where ummm…” he raises up the scrap of paper in his right hand which has the name ‘Prof. Novak’ scribbled on it, followed by an unintelligible room number. He squints at it, like he’s trying to decipher the handwriting. “Where Professor… Novak’s room is please? I think whoever wrote this down was in a bit of a hurry.” (He wasn’t; he wrote it and rewrote it last night). Dean flashes a sheepish smile and the paper in the direction of the receptionist.

The dude frowns, but it’s not aimed at Dean. “That Christine,” he shakes his head, glint of sweat at his temple, “Always too busy filing her nails instead of paperwork.”

Dean has a moment to feel sorry for poor Christine, who's innocent - at least in this instance - before the guy is getting up from behind the desk and coming round to stand by Dean. “Not a very good first impression, now is it? Are you a transfer student? We don’t usually get so many at this time of the year.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Just come over from KSU.”

The guys cuts his eyes in Dean’s direction as they begin walking down the corridor. It’s quite narrow, not helped by this man’s considerable bulk.

Dean laughs awkwardly. “Yeah, I know. Kind of a traitor, right?”

“Well, not anymore; you’ve obviously learned the error of your ways. So what are you studying son? Gotta be something artsy fartsy if you’re in this building.”

Dean doesn’t point out that law comes under humanities. Sam would pitch a fit – _“Do you know what promissory estoppel is, Dean? DO YOU?”_ – if he ever heard anyone refer to law as ‘artsy fartsy’.

“English literature.”

“Ah, well then you’re definitely in safe hands with Professor Novak.”

Dean’s heart rate picks up. “Yeah?” He tries, throat dry, aiming for casual. “Is he a good lecturer?”

They turn left into a set of double doors and another corridor.

“From what I’ve seen and heard, he certainly seems to know his stuff. He’s a little eccentric, but I suppose that’s to be expected if you spend most of your adult life as an academic. He’s definitely popular with the students.”

Ignoring the now-familiar itch of jealousy, Dean prompts, “And with the teachers?”            

“They all seem to like him. He’s not all that sociable really. Keeps to himself. But he really cares about his students,” he reiterates. “Wants them to be the best that they can be and all that. Y’know?”

“Yeah,” Dean says weakly. Sounds just like Cas. “Is he married?”

The guy gives Dean a look again. “Why? You offerin’?”

Dean tries not to blush, he really does. It just makes it worse though. Luckily, his companion has already turned away, focused on the door right at the end of this corridor on the left. “Don’t sweat it, kid. I’m convinced that half of the girls – some boys too – come here for Novak. Here we are.” He taps lightly on the rather immaculate looking door of room number 65. Some of the others that they had passed had peeling paint, little chips missing here and there. Not Castiel’s.

Dean fights against his smile. Because of course, not Castiel’s.

“Come.”

That voice and that command. In very different circumstances, it wouldn’t be a challenge for Dean.

The receptionist swings the door open inwards and ushers Dean inside.

Castiel is seated at his desk, a stack of papers to his left, and a slightly shorter one to his right. He’s still looking down at the sheet he’s currently marking, black pen grasped in those slender fingers. There are no picture frames on his desk or anywhere else in the rather bare room. There’s a book case off to the left of the desk, spines neatly arranged, no doubt in alphabetical order. The window just behind-and-slightly-to-the-right of Cas is relatively small, and from this angle, Dean can’t see much of outside.

“I’ve got a new recruit for you here, Professor.” He says, nudging Dean forward with his shoulder. At that, Castiel does look up, charming smile already forming, which freezes when he sees just who his ‘new recruit’ is.

To his credit, Castiel doesn’t let on, just regards Dean blankly, his mouth set in something that can’t quite be called a smile. “Excellent. Always nice to have someone who’s interested in studying literature. What’s your name?”

Dean smiles wide and knowing, “Jay, Sir.”

Castiel’s lips twitch. He turns his attention to the receptionist. “Thank you for bringing him to me, David.”

“Of course, Professor Novak.” David does this weird kind of bow, like he’s a trainee butler and hasn’t quite got the hang of it yet, and then claps Dean on the shoulder. “See you around, kid.” The door closes behind him with a soft click.

There’s nothing but silence in the small room for what feels hours, but in reality is probably only seconds; enough time for David to be well on his way back to his post at reception. Castiel makes use of the time by getting a good, long look at Dean, the corner of his lip trapped between his teeth.

Dean has to fight not to squirm under the scrutiny. He feels hot all over, skin far too tight. And then finally, mercifully, Castiel speaks, rising up out of his seat. “Cute. I suppose you think you’re clever.”

Yeah, pretty much.

“Not especially. Certainly not as clever as you.” Dean flashes a sardonic smile. “Though I’m learning fast, so who knows, I could be your best student yet.” He slings his backpack off and drops it somewhere to the right. “Sir.”

There’s a dangerous glint in Castiel’s eyes as he leans against the desk, arms folded over his chest and legs crossed at his ankles, “I was under the impression that we’d covered the fact that I don’t fuck my students.”

Dean very nearly laughs. “What about your T.A.?”

Castiel cuts Dean a look that slices right through him, brutal and remorseless. He hadn’t been aware which details of his conversation with Alan Hoban that the man had shared with Cas, and so the T.A. quip was kind of a shot in the dark.

Hit the intended target though.

“Alright.” Dean smirks, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Not so much on the T.A.’s. What about librarians, then Cas? Got a thing about them? ‘Cause I heard from a _reliable source_ that you’ve been meeting one from work for about a month and a half now. That mean you have two of us on the go, or are you just a collector of all things book related?”

Castiel seems to ponder this for a moment. “Hmm. I _do_ love books.”

 _Asshole_.

“Any favorites? ‘Look homeward, Angel’ by any chance?”

“I’m quite partial to Bukowski, actually.” Castiel pushes up and away from the desk, rising to his full height. He looks good. In fact, he’s in the same outfit that he was wearing the day that they met; obviously custom made – not the sort of thing just anyone can buy off the rack. Desire curls in Dean’s stomach.

_Fucks’ sake, focus._

“Funny you should mention that. The copy of ‘Pulp’ that you checked out is late back. You’ll incur a penalty.”

Castiel advances on him, graceful and fluid, gaze focused entirely on Dean. “Ah. Is that why you’re here? Since when do librarians make house calls?”

“Since when do professors?” Dean fires back. “Pretty sure that’s the real issue at hand here.”

Castiel stops a foot or so away and does that _thing_ where he looks like he’s trying to decipher a foreign language, head tilted as he regards Dean. “Why are you really here, Dean? Not that I’m complaining of course; I love seeing you. I’m always looking for ways that I can see more of you in fact.”

It’s the way his mouth curls up into a wicked smirk that has Dean blushing all over.

Fuck this.

“Did you enjoy seeing more of me the night that you broke in?” Dean asks suddenly, voice gritty. It’s a last-ditch attempt; he’s getting frustrated, nothing seems to be working, and he can feel the moral high ground slipping out from beneath his feet. He’s not as good at this as Castiel is. Not by a long shot.

This close, Dean doesn’t miss the way Castiel’s breath catches in his throat, a too-sharp inhale that snags on a reply that never comes.

That’s okay, Castiel has answered the question without Dean needing to hear a word; his reaction is all the affirmation that is needed.

_Well, maybe just a little more._

Dean licks his lips, leaving them shiny and wet. His pulse is racing when he asks roughly, “Did you stay and watch, Cas? Did you imagine your hands in place of mine?”

In the face of Castiel’s danger-tinged silence, Dean continues on, emboldened by his own lust and certainty. “I did. I was thinking about your hands all over my skin, how you’d feel against me, inside me. How I wanted you to own me, possess me in a way that I’d never needed before. Because I knew from the first moment that we met Cas, I knew that I needed you –“

“ _Dean_.” The edges of the word are dipped in arsenic; sharp and lethal in the right quantity. In _any_ quantity. It’s a warning.

But Dean isn’t done. Either both of them are in this, or neither of them are. Castiel has made it clear which he’d prefer, so now he needs to deal with the consequences of getting what he wished for,  “–needed you to bury your words of praise in my skin, needed you to get inside me, make me see myself how you see me. I needed to understand _why_. Why me.” It’s far too fucking honest, and Castiel is right there, in Dean’s personal space like he owns it, an undeniable pull drawing them together, like they never really stood a chance.

Castiel takes Dean’s face in his hands, gently stroking the pads of his thumbs along the hollows beneath Dean’s eyes. It’s tender and affectionate in a way that makes the space behind Dean’s ribs ache “There is no-one else, Dean. Only you.” There’s no careful choosing of words that Dean is used to when dealing with Castiel; just openness and agonizing sincerity, like Castiel has never even considered another option, like to suggest otherwise would be blasphemy in the extreme.

Dean’s heartbeat trips and restarts. His desperation to act on the way he feels in this moment is palpable, almost a sentient being that couldn’t give less of a shit about morality or this tenuous game of chicken that they have going on.

“Tell me, Cas.” Dean’s voice is nothing more than a paper-thin whisper, stripped bare by Castiel’s fierce confession, “Did you watch?”

Castiel’s eyes flick up to Dean’s then, guileless blue giving way to hungry black. He looks as helpless in the moment as Dean feels, exposed right down to the wire, “You’re so beautiful Dean. How could I not?”

The barely-there admission breaks something loose inside Dean, but it doesn’t matter; he’s pretty sure that he didn’t need it any way. Not any more at least. For a long moment, the air shared between them is nothing but the calm before the storm; dense and cloying and supercharged with the kind of visceral lust that Dean’s never experienced before. Desire and heat radiates from Castiel in waves and Dean is more than happy to let himself be swept away with the tide.

And then they’re kissing, hot, wet and filthy, desperation evident in every move that either one of them makes, push and pull together, sexual appetites feeding off one another. Castiel drags Dean in impossibly closer, one hand on Dean’s back, fingers twisted up in Dean’s shirt, like he wants to fuse them together physically as well as metaphorically. It’s heady and painful, and Dean feels so fucking powerful that he can’t even begin to describe it.

The kiss is everything and nothing like the first time all over again; greedy, demanding, and inelegant, but it’s framed by an element of reciprocity that wasn’t there back then; couldn’t have been, because Dean didn’t _know_ Cas then. Couldn’t have known.

“Cas,” Dean moans against Castiel’s lips, more syllables than strictly necessary, close to coming undone already, body trembling and hot and sweaty, heart beating with complicated love and desire; feelings that Dean hasn’t even begun to have a handle on yet. Whether this is merely a mutually-unspoken pact to ignore the worst in one another in order to continue enjoying the best, or something more quantifiable, Dean isn’t sure.

Doesn’t care.

He’s too busy trying to carve out a new place for himself under Castiel’s skin, blunt edges of his fingernails digging crescent-shaped bruises in Castiel’s biceps through his dark shirt, feeling the fluid shift of muscles beneath his palms as Castiel backs Dean up against the wall, hands all over Dean like he can’t decide where he wants to touch first, finally settling with one on Dean’s ass, and the other in Dean’s hair, fingers twisting through the strands almost painfully. He forces Dean’s head back, making him arch into it, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the exposed skin of his neck, all dirty-hot want and unrestrained hunger.

Dean can feel the solid heat of Castiel’s cock trapped between them and it’s at that point that the final vestiges of rationality drain away and he’s left with the single, urgent need to get fucked. “The desk – ” Dean pants, breathing ragged and thick with lust. “Want you to fuck me on your desk.”

Castiel’s hips jerk up, an involuntary reaction to Dean’s words, and he bites down so hard on the meaty junction between Dean’s neck and shoulder that Dean’s surprised that he doesn’t draw blood.

Castiel releases Dean’s hair, dropping his hands to slide underneath Dean, palms fitting to the curve of his ass, urging him upwards. Dean gets the message and lifts his left leg up, wrapping it around Castiel’s hip, and then follows it with the right, letting Cas haul him up, spine riding against the wall.

“Hold on,” Castiel murmurs, nuzzling into Dean’s throat, tongue darting out to lick over his pulse point.

Dean doesn’t ever plan on letting go.

And then they’re in motion; Cas lifting Dean away from the wall, turning and carrying him the few feet over to the desk, like Dean doesn’t weigh a fucking thing, and it’s so ridiculously fucking hot that he can’t remember a time when he wanted anyone or anything as much as he wants Castiel in this moment.

He deposits Dean on the edge of the desk and reaches past him to sweep the surface with his left arm, sending books toppling, papers fluttering, and pens rolling, falling to the floor.

He’s back on Dean in a heartbeat, kissing him with a ferocity that threatens to turn Dean’s legs to jelly, and if he lets out a desperate little whimper then he’ll deny it to his dying day. Castiel sets to work on Dean’s belt, before thumbing open the button on his jeans. Zipper undone, Cas fists his hands in the waistline, yanking them down Dean’s thighs along with his boxers.

Cas pulls away to check out his handiwork, simultaneously giving Dean the chance to stare at Castiel; dark hair completely wild, curled at his temples with sweat, faint flush along the high sweep of his cheekbones.

Dean’s gaze drops to Castiel’s kiss-swollen lips and he can feel his pulse low in his bones.

Cas is gorgeous.

“Take your shirt off.” Castiel’s voice is even lower than usual, twenty different kinds of sin, and if Dean is going to Hell anyway, then he may as well make an entrance.

He does as he’s told, yanking his shirt off overhead so fast that he hears a small tear and is sure that he’s just made that hole in the armpit bigger, but when Castiel is staring at him like he wants to eat him alive, it’s kinda difficult to find the wherewithal to care.

“Turn over. Palms flat on the desk.”

To say that he feels exposed with his pants slowly slipping down towards his knees and his ass up in the air is probably an understatement of epic proportions, but it ceases to matter the very instant that Dean feels the wet drag of Cas’s tongue over his perineum, slick and hot.

“Oh fuck, Cas.”

Castiel grabs the firm flesh of Dean’s ass and pulls his cheeks apart, holding him open so that he can flick his tongue over Dean’s hole, once, twice, curling his tongue, steadily working to get past the tight ring of muscle.

Dean whines low in his throat, fingernails digging in to the smooth surface of the desk. _God, fuck_ , he can barely hold on to a coherent thought, let alone formulate words to adequately express how fucking amazing this truly is. He cries out again when Cas’s tongue penetrates him, spreading him wide, despite the fabric bunched at Dean’s knees that limits the sprawl of his legs, but that doesn’t seem to stop Castiel, doesn’t even slow him down.

He sinks a finger into Dean’s hole, alongside the dip of his tongue. Fucks it in and out a couple of times, breath hot and damp when he rasps out, “You taste so good Dean. Always knew you would. So perfect.”

He slides another finger in alongside the first, pushing deep, bringing his face against the curve of Dean’s ass, coarse stubble rubbing against the most tender part of Dean, tongue sweeping across the skin in broad lingering licks that have Dean’s breath coming in little staccato groans. Cas twists his fingers, scissors them, making Dean cry out, “ _oh god, oh god, oh god_ ,” a prayer that goes no further because - _goddammit_ \- Castiel is removing his fingers and his tongue and Dean is suddenly so very empty.

“ _Fuck._ Dean, I’m sorry – I can’t -- I need to –“

Dean doesn’t need to look to know that Castiel is utterly wrecked, but he does anyway, watching through lust-fogged eyes as Cas straightens up again, nimble fingers frantically working his belt open, shoving his boxers down just far enough to get his cock out. It’s hot, _so fucking hot_ that Cas is still fully clothed, can’t even bear to not be inside Dean for the time it would take to get undressed.

There’s some kind of deep meaning in there somewhere, but Dean’s damned if he can figure out what the fuck it is right now.

He hears Castiel spit into his hand, feels him line up his dick to Dean’s hole. Without lube, Dean knows that this is gonna hurt, but he’s not even close to giving a fuck; every muscle wound tight with anticipation, gasping as Cas sinks slowly into his body, splitting him wide, throbbing heat of his cock just the right side of pain. Cas slides his hands over the smooth curve of Dean’s ass, fingertips pressing bruises into the flesh there, holding Dean still as he slides in, inch by torturous inch.

Dean whimpers helplessly, pinned between the desk and Castiel’s hips. It hurts. It hurts so good and he never wants it to end.

Castiel utters a mangled approximation of a curse once he’s buried inside Dean, shifting his hips ever-so-slightly to gain another inch, to push in further, impossibly deep. He waits a second or two, allowing for Dean to adjust, before drawing back, pulling to the rim, until he’s barely inside, and then he snaps his hips forward, shoving himself into Dean’s body and back out again, beginning to fuck into Dean more smoothly, gaining pace and force; rapidly becoming brutal thrusts that steal Dean’s breath away with the intensity of it.

The soft, expensive material of Cas’s pants is a stark contrast to the hard, stinging slap of skin on skin. It gives Dean a perverse little thrill, but at this stage it’s a mere quirk in comparison to the image that's permanently burned behind his eyelids of Castiel watching Dean jerk off in the shower, looking but not touching, there for Dean to see whenever his eyelashes flutter shut.

Castiel makes a low noise in his throat, each violent thrust of his hips growing more and more urgent, like he’s determined to fuck his way – _all the way_ – into Dean’s body as well as his mind. Dean’s cock is aching hard, trapped between his stomach and the surface of the desk, hips twisting against Cas’s, body taut, breath catching in his chest. He needs, _God, he needs –_

“ _God_ – So good Dean, you’re so fucking good for me –“

He needs to be good for Castiel, needs to show him _just how good_ , so he grits his teeth and pushes up, baring his weight on his hands and grinds his hips back into the thick heavy length of Castiel’s dick, meeting him thrust for thrust, no longer just _taking_ , but _giving_ too, relishing the agonized growl Cas lets out, pained, like it hurts. Hurts to want Dean.

“Christ, _Dean_.”

Cas sounds as wrecked as Dean feels, skin tight and hot, ready come at the slightest touch. He keeps his grip on Dean’s hips, fingers digging in as he draws back and then fucks into Dean deeper, impossibly harder.

Neither of them are going to last.

“ _Jesus, fuck_ Cas. Gonna.”

Dean barely manages to get a hand on his dick, before his orgasm hits, scorching wildfire in his veins, whole body shuddering and pulsing, rippling against Castiel as he comes over the desk and his own stomach, hot and messy and sticky.

Castiel’s thrusts begin to grow uneven; rough and jagged as he continues fucking Dean, pressed in deep, surging up onto the balls of his feet with every thrust into Dean’s lax body, screwing him right through his orgasm and out the other side. Dean’s still riding high, barely coherent when Cas’s hips suddenly stutter and still, holding there, as he comes, flooding Dean with his load.

"Fuck. _Fuck_."

Dean couldn't agree more.

There's still a tension there; still a lot of questions that Dean will be demanding answers for, but for now? Well, this is pretty awesome.

He lets out a weak moan, dick twitching feebly as Castiel leans down, still buried inside him, and presses his sweaty forehead to the center of Dean’s back, eyelashes fluttering against Dean’s skin.

They stay there for a few long moments, both of them panting like they’ve run a marathon, frantically pulling air down into their lungs. Castiel places a tentative kiss in the dip of Dean’s spine, just above his ass.

“Have you heard of Kintsugi?” His breath is warm, almost ticklish and Dean has to fight not to squirm, grunting out a rough approximation of, ' _no_.'

Another soft kiss. “It’s the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer, dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum, treating breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise. The piece ends up being far more beautiful than originally intended – than if it had remained whole.”

Despite having to decipher Castiel’s words through the haze of his afterglow, Dean understands, and he’s not crying; his eyes are just watering from the epic sex. “Jesus, Cas.”

They're both quiet for a moment, but Dean can almost _hear_ Castiel thinking.

“Tomorrow.” Castiel says abruptly, decisively, like a promise. “Tomorrow I’m going to show you how good it can be.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great comments guys. Really appreciated.  
> Also, for those who are hoping for some redeeming qualities in this fic: there are none, so please be warned.  
> Everyone else, enjoy!

So. Cas wants to show him how good it can be.

What ‘it’ is, Dean’s not one hundred per cent clear on.

It could be anything from a night out at a nice burger joint all the way up to an evening spent in the woods somewhere, digging graves.

The best thing about that sentence is that it’s not even slightly hyperbolic; Castiel really is that zero-to-sixty.

Dean would be lying if he said that he didn’t find it kind of thrilling. Though, after the last few years of painful mundanity, only underscored by patches of intense fear, getting a good night’s sleep is pretty thrilling. Cas’s particular brand of exhilaration is closer to standing in the direct path of a tornado, hoping that it’ll suddenly veer off and not smash you or your house to itty bitty pieces.

Sure, there are tornado warnings, but when the siren is barely five minutes ahead of the storm, there’s not time to do much but simply react and hope for the best.

So whatever ‘it’ is, Dean’s not entirely convinced that he’s going to come out of the experience one hundred per cent intact. But perhaps, like the crazy people who chase tornadoes for a living and tell themselves that it’s for science, Dean isn’t going to let it stop him.

_For science._

Psychology is a science, right?

17:38. Cas said he’d be here for seven. Hour and twenty-two minutes to go.

Seriously though, what the Hell did Dean actually _do_ with his spare time before Cas came along?

_Drink. Try to sleep. Wake up at four a.m. after a nightmare. Drink some more to forget. Rinse and repeat._

Pretty bleak stuff.

He could watch a movie whilst he waits, but it’s unlikely that he’ll be able to concentrate on the plot; it’d be background noise at best, playing second fiddle to the rolling anticipation in his gut and the thoughts slithering through his brain, every minute ticking by having Dean coming up with crazier ideas until he’ll end up convinced that this evening is going to consist of standing partially dressed in a cinema showing of Citizen Kane sacrificing chickens to some obscure Aztec god of gold, or something.

He wouldn’t put it past Cas.

In fairness, there’s not much he wouldn’t put past Cas.

Not now that he knows.

But knowing implies insight, and Dean has precisely jack shit more insight into Castiel than he did before his rigorous confession.

He has no idea _why._ Or how.

_Or how fuckin’ many._

Alastair, for one. Mikey, for two. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t more. Obviously, Alastair was a necessity and Mikey… well he wasn’t exactly a charmer, but did he deserve to die for it?

Probably not.

It’s something that Dean needs to get right with if he’s seriously considering giving his relationship with Cas a shot. Once again, they’re both in it together or neither of them are.

 _Is_ he seriously considering this?

_Too late for doubts now._

Yeah. It probably is a bit belated at this stage; realistically, Dean’s decision was made the very instant that he didn’t run a fucking mile after Alastair was killed, and instead stayed up drinking and plotting how to win a war against Cas.

And win he did. Now he knows how the Oda family felt after the battle of Okehazama.

Besides, he’s spent far too much of his life running. Of all the reasons to run, someone caring for Dean in their own, twisted way might not be one of them. Even if it’s all scary as fuck.

Of course for most, the scary part would be the obvious things, like the murder and the dead bodies and the psychopathy that Cas clearly suffers from, but for Dean, it’s the pure scope of Castiel’s feelings for him.

Castiel is prepared _to kill for Dean_. Has killed for him. Gave Dean the poor bastard’s heart. It isn’t the sheer violence that Cas visited upon Mikey in itself, but rather that Castiel did it for Dean. Because he sees Dean as something that needs to be protected at all costs. Because he sat there on the edge of Dean’s bed, hands gentle as he bandaged Dean up, took care of him, mere hours before he beat someone to death in a protective homicidal rage.

It’s all about reconciling the two sides of Cas and deciding whether one cancels out the other.

He’s still no closer to deciding on how to keep his mind occupied for the next hour and sixteen minutes – continuing to stare listlessly into the distance isn’t really an option – when there’s a knock at the door.

In the time that Dean’s lived in Kansas, the only people who have knocked on his door have been the mailman (the one time Dean accepted a parcel on behalf of his neighbor on the right), his neighbor on the left asking if their cat had got into Dean’s yard (it had) and Cas.

Suffice it so say, Dean’s not expecting anyone other than the latter. But Cas is pretty good at texting Dean when he’s on his way or if the plans change. So it’s probably not him.

There’s a second knock. Harder this time. More insistent.

_They’re not going away._

It’s a little bit pathetic really. He’s sitting in the semi-darkness, alone, contemplating his boyfriend’s murderous tendencies and yet, he’s getting himself worked up over answering the door. Why? Who the fuck does he think is gonna be on the other side?

Taking a deep, ‘ _have a word with yourself, Winchester’_ breath, Dean shoves himself up off the couch and shuffles over to the door. He pulls the chain off, twists the lock.

It’s probably some Jehovah’s witnesses or –

Well, shit.

Two officers of the law are standing on Dean’s porch, all neatly pressed suits and middle class efficiency.

_Fuck, fuck fuck._

They’re here about Alastair. They’ve gotta be. Goddamn it. Dean needs to put in a call to Sammy and then Cas and then –

“Good evening, Mr Winchester.” The one who speaks is tall with blue eyes and a strong lilt that has Dean thinking of bayous and gumbo. His handsome face is kind, expression open, but it doesn’t do anything to slow Dean’s jack-rabbiting pulse.

“Hi.” He manages, voice sounding small and far away, gripping onto the doorframe so hard that his knuckles turn white. “How can I help you?”

_Probably by telling them where the body is buried._

The handsome guy is about to respond when his older, more grizzled companion jumps in, “May we come in?”

_No._

“Sure.” Dean steps back, allowing them inside. “Can I get either of you a drink?” ‘Cause Dean sure as shit needs one. He closes the door behind them, doesn’t bother locking it. They’ll probably be on their way back out in a minute, dragging Dean behind them in cuffs.

“No thank you.” Handsome says, slightly-wrong-shade-of-blue eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiles. “I’m Officer Lafitte and this is Deputy Sheriff Turner. We’re with the Douglas County Sheriff’s office.”

“Okay,” Dean says shakily, trying to pull himself together. It feels like something has vacuumed all of the air out of the room. “How can I help you?”

“We just need to ask you a couple of questions in regards to the death of Dorothy Wilton.”

Of all the things Dean was expecting, that certainly wasn’t one of them.

“Umm,” Dean says stupidly, waiting for his brain to come back online now that the blind panic has mellowed and he can breathe normally again. His heart is still beating in triplicate, but that seems to be a common occurrence of late, albeit for a different reason, “Of course, yeah.”

“Shall we sit down?” Officer Turner says and it’s not a request.

So Dean sits on the couch. Lafitte follows suit, keeping just enough distance between himself and Dean to be respectable. Turner remains standing.

“Alright,” Lafitte starts, turning towards Dean. “So Ms. Wilton was a patron of the Lawrence public library where you are head librarian, is that correct?”

“Yeah.” Dean doesn’t need to fake his small smile when he thinks of Dorothy and her gossip. And her near-constant harassment of Dean’s ass. “She’d come in most days and chat to me and my colleague for a while.”

Lafitte nods whilst Turner makes notes. “And did you notice anything odd about the last time that you saw her? Was she acting strangely?”

The last time Dean saw Dorothy was the day he met Cas.

_“Do you believe in coincidences?”_

_“No.”_

“Mr Winchester?” Lafitte prompts, leaning in a little closer.

“Sorry. No, she was fine. She checked out a few books. Told me about the bake sale where her cakes were the main event. The usual kind of thing.”

“Did she mention having met anyone new recently?”

Dean’s brow furrows. “Not that I remember.”

“I’ll tell you why we’re asking Mr Winchester. A witness remembers seeing a tall man with dark hair leaving her apartment the night she died. A student who was in the library at the same time as Ms. Wilton told us that a professor named –“ he checks his pad, though Dean already knows the name before Lafitte says it, “ – Castiel Novak spoke to her for a while.”

“Okay?” Dean says, pretending not to catch on. Because of course there could be thousands of explanations. There aren’t. But there _could be_.

“Well son, he’s tall with dark hair. Doesn’t take a genius.” Turner says, a touch of impatience about it like he’d rather be drinking some good whisky with his feet up and the game on.

_You and me both buddy._

“He’s a friend of mine.” Dean lies. Sort of. “He was there to see me and I think Dorothy got a bit flustered.” He looks between the two men, “I’m sorry, I’m not really getting the connection.”

He’s totally getting the connection.

_Fuck’s sake, Castiel._

Lafitte’s eyes drop to Dean’s lips. Just for a split second. Enough time for Dean to catch it. “A friend?” Dean shifts awkwardly, cheeks hot. Nods. “Alright. Well it ain’t anything to worry about. Just a line of inquiry that we’re following up on.”

Dean isn’t entirely convinced. “O-okay.”

Turner clears his throat. Patience definitely isn’t one of his virtues. Perversely, Dean kinda likes him. “It brings us to our next question though Mr. Winchester, and the main reason we’re here.”

Dean waits for it.

“We’ve already spoken to Mr. Novak and he gave you as his alibi for the night that Dorothy died.”

_What?_

Right. So. Cas has seemingly decided that this piece of information isn’t important enough to bother Dean with. Despite having had ample opportunity. Or is that the point? Catch Dean off guard like he did with Cas yesterday? Dean thought that they were past all this game playing bullshit.

Apparently not.

Turner continues. “So can you please confirm his whereabouts on the night of the fourth of this month?”

The fourth. The fourth. Fuck, what was Dean doing?

That was the night he went to the damn bridge. The night that _J, a.k.a. Castiel Fucking Novak sent him to the damn bridge._

_Motherfucker._

It does explain a couple of things though.

“Um,” Dean says. Blinks.

Do or die.

 _Shit._ “He was with me all night. We stayed in. Watched a movie.”

Lafitte looks almost disappointed. Turner flips his notebook shut. “Yeah, that’s what he said. Not that I think it’s gonna come to it, but would you be willing to swear that in a court of law?”

“Yeah.” Dean says without thinking. Because he would.

_Goddammit, Cas._

Maybe it’s time for Dean to invest in a storm cellar.

 

***

 

Dean sits there for quite some time after the police have gone. Officer Lafitte – “Call me Benny, please.” – left Dean his card with a hastily scribbled cell number on the back.

Dean finds himself wanting to rip the card up and eat the pieces before Castiel sees it and does something batshit crazy like murdering an innocent person for flirting with Dean.

Oh wait, he’s _already fucking done that_.

Poor Dorothy.

It’s no longer just an objective, outside-of-Dean’s-range-of-vision thing, like with Mikey. Nor is it a subjective, up-close-and-personal thing, like with Alastair.

No, this time it’s sort-of personal, but more than that, it’s someone who one hundred percent didn’t deserve this, couldn’t have possibly done anything to deserve this.

Fuck.

How is Dean supposed to deal with that? Just when he thinks he’s getting the hang of this thing and then Cas goes and blows it all to shit again.

It’s not just the murder of Dorothy that has Dean reeling, either. It’s the potential. The potential for Cas to have been doing damage this entire time without Dean realizing.

How many have there been? How many people are dead because they gave Dean bad service in a restaurant? How many families are grieving because Castiel deems even the tiniest slight as an insult to Dean’s very existence? What happens if Dean encounters an angry patron at the library (hey, some people get very upset if their favorite Rudyard Kipling is checked out two weeks in a row)? Is Dean going to spend the rest of his life worrying about this shit? Watching every move he makes in case Castiel is there to smite anyone Dean disagrees with?

At the best of times being with Castiel is like having an apex predator tethered on a fraying piece of string, but right now Dean feels as if his animal has just bitten a neighborhood kid and he’s still defending it by saying things like: ‘But he’s never done anything like this before!”, “He’s good really!”

God-fucking-dammit.

He wants a drink, but he wants to be stone cold sober for when Castiel arrives, more. So he stays where he is, silently seething in the dark.

Castiel had better have a damn good explanation. Not that there is one that’s good enough to justify killing an innocent old lady, but Dean needs to believe that there’s some kind of reasoning behind it.

Of course, there’s always the distinct possibility that Dean could be jumping to conclusions, that Cas might not actually be guilty of this. There can’t be any evidence to put Cas at the scene of the crime otherwise he’d be behind bars already. It’s entirely possible that the two events are a coincidence and that Castiel just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and get identified.

That would be pretty solid logic if not for two things:

-          No such thing as coincidences.

-          Cas lied about his alibi. What innocent person does that?

Aside from Dean of course, who just lies about other people’s.

_Not really innocent anymore either though._

Eight minutes until Cas gets here. Dean spends it mentally psyching himself up. Cas is a kaleidoscope; made up of the same shades and colors as everyone else, but even just the smallest shift and the pattern breaks and forms something entirely new. Some combination that you likely haven’t encountered before.

Dean needs to be prepared for whatever.

There’s two minutes to go when Dean hears the crunch of tires on gravel. A car engine shutting off, the ping of cooling metal.

Dean doesn’t bother moving. He hasn’t locked the door since the police left. He hasn’t eaten the card either. Instead, it sits jammed down in the front-right pocket of his jeans. A crumpled time bomb.

When the knock comes, Dean stays perfectly still. He holds on to his anger, lets it tighten the stranglehold on his heart, lest the fucking thing betray him again.

“It’s open.” He croaks, voice sounding strange, even to his own ears.

When the door swings open and Dean catches sight of Cas for the first time in twenty-four hours, he’s instantly annoyed. As usual, the bastard looks unfairly handsome, dressed down in casual attire; snug jeans and a leather jacket over a navy button down, and he just looks so effortlessly put together, everything about him so deliberate and graceful, that it’s hard for Dean to focus.

He also doesn’t look put out by the change in convention, simply steps inside, shuts the door behind himself and flicks the light switch on. Like it’s a normal occurrence for your boyfriend or whatever-the-fuck-he-is-to-Cas to be sitting there in the dark by himself, glaring daggers at you before you’ve even said hello.

Maybe in Cas’s world it is.

“I’ve just had the police here,” Dean says carefully, no preamble, watching Castiel closely for any kind of reaction or surprise. There is none. “They were asking me questions about Dorothy.” He slowly stands up, so that he can face Cas properly, walks around the couch. “You remember her right? The old lady you nearly gave a heart attack to when you bent over to get her book.”

“I remember.” Castiel says darkly, sloughing off his jacket and draping it over the banister. Dean really should get around to putting up some hooks.

Dean swallows hard, dry cottony taste in his mouth. “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt –”

“Don’t.”

The world tilts dangerously, dimming around the edges and Dean suddenly feels sick, “Jesus fucking Christ Cas. You did actually kill her?”

Castiel doesn’t say anything, just sort of makes an ‘eh’ face.

And that’s it. Castiel’s nonchalance in the face of something like this is what causes Dean’s final strand of patience to snap, and he’s left with nothing but pure, unadulterated anger, pulsing hot and thick like lava in his veins, every muscle in his body wound taut, fists clenching uselessly at his sides as he makes the split second decision to embrace rather than deflect. “Are you fucking serious right now, Castiel? What in the actual fuck is wrong with you? How can you stand there and be this calm, this goddamned blasé about killing an innocent person?”

That gets a reaction. Castiel fucking _smiles_. He tilts his head and squints at Dean like he’s not quite sure what he’s looking at. “Are you upset because you think you should be or because you actually are?”

Dean is seriously contemplating rearranging Castiel’s pretty face around his fist, “The fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about society’s expectations. It’s simple really. Why don’t people go around murdering others?”

This conversation cannot actually be happening. Dean’s gotta be dreaming or something. He feels like bouncing his head off the nearest flat surface just to make sure. “Because it’s wrong!”

“Who says? The law? The bible? If I remember correctly, the law did absolutely nothing for you. The only way you got true justice was by taking it into your own hands. And religion? Someone’s idea of bedtime stories - If your moral code comes from a book written by some desert dwelling, goat herding nomads between fourteen hundred and two thousand years ago, then you have no authority on what is acceptable in the twenty-first century. So tell me again, Dean. Why don’t people go around murdering others?”

_How very Palahniuk._

“Because what gives you the right to decide who lives and dies?”

“Nobody _gives_ me the right Dean. I take it. Like politicians and dictators do all over the world. Just on a massively reduced scale. A drop in the ocean by comparison.” He pauses, carefully construed dramatics for maximum effect, “As an aside, I killed Michael too. _We_ killed Alastair. I don’t see you getting upset on behalf of either of them or their families. Maybe you should think long and hard about why that is, and then ask me again about what gives _anyone_ the right to decide who is worthy of life and who isn’t.”

Dean can’t get his head around a viable argument in response to that. Wouldn’t even know where to begin. So okay, Castiel may have a point, but Dean’s still at the top of the leaderboard. He pulls a shaky breath down into his lungs, screws his eyes shut. He needs time to process, to sift through all of this.

When Castiel speaks again, his voice is softer, closer. “Millions have killed and been killed in the name of their God or greed, but how many have killed in the name of true love?” Castiel cups Dean’s jaw, strokes the pad of his thumb across Dean’s bottom lip. “I know which I deem to be the more noble of causes.”

Dean ignores the way his stupid heart flutters at the word _love_ , and mutters, “Jesus fucking Christ, Cas.”

“Look at me, Dean.”

Dean meets Castiel’s eyes, sharp and piercing, passion and fire. It’s too similar to yesterday, an image in negative, waiting to be developed. “How many people have you killed because of me, Cas?”

Castiel lets his hand drop, backs away from Dean an inch or two. “Does it matter? It won’t redress the balance of how many people failed you.”

_So that’s what this is about?_

“That’s not why I’m asking.”

Castiel takes a seat on the couch, arm splayed along the back, one leg crossed over the other, looking up at Dean, calm and easy as anything. Like they're discussing what to have for dinner. “What number would make you feel better Dean? Five? Ten? Hmm? Would it make you feel better to know that the man who accosted you in the graveyard died a slow and painful death, choking on his own blood?”

 _Jesus_. “No. But I need to know.”

“Why?”

“Because!” Dean explodes, tiny fragments of composure splintering and scattering. “Because I need to know just what kind of monster I’ve gone and fallen in love with!”

_Well, shit._

Smooth.

Castiel gives Dean a weighted look, “Is it necessary for you to see me as a monster in order to distance yourself from me? Because you knew that I had killed Dorothy and yet you still protected me from the police. You made a choice there Dean. So are you sure you’re distancing yourself or are you binding yourself closer?”

_For better or for worse. In sickness and in health._

Goddammit.

Of course. Of course it was a choice. It had been there in the back of Dean’s mind the second he found out about Cas’s potential involvement, dusty and unvisited, but on a sub-conscious level, he knew there was something off about the whole thing. Castiel is painstakingly careful. Why would he allow himself to be tripped up by something so routine? Why would he allow someone to connect the dots that ended up pointing to him?

Because he was giving Dean an out. A final choice. A way of getting rid of him in a way that would leave Dean with his dignity intact. He wouldn’t be running. He’d be standing his ground. Sure, it’d be messy and he’d have to give evidence, but he’s done a lot worse when he’s been a lot weaker.

But Dean chose Cas. He chose Cas, just like he’d do given the same choice even now. He barely even thought about it.

“I would have pleaded guilty to save you giving evidence.” Castiel murmurs, like he can read Dean’s thoughts. “I wouldn’t have contested it. If it had been what you really wanted.”

This is love. Whether Dean likes it or not. It is what it is.

_Take it or leave it._

“Well, I’m not really sure why I did that.” Dean mutters petulantly. It’s a lie and the look of indulgent exasperation that Cas gives him, suggests that he knows it too. “Should have just handed you over to the cops.”

“Uh-huh. Could it be because you love me and you’d do anything for the ones you love?”

_Tou-fucking-ché._

“Alright.” Dean says, sitting down on the coffee table opposite Cas, knees touching. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, watching Castiel watch him, undeniably predatory. Dean tries his best to ignore the tension, to focus on getting through this without either one of them losing their cool or clothes. “Alright Cas, let’s say that I’m buying what you’re selling. Let’s say that your love for me fuels your need to kill. Why Dorothy? What did she ever do to me, huh?”

Castiel’s answer is immediate, obvious to him and therefore should be to Dean. “She sexually harassed you.”

Dean’s laugh is bitter, all bile and no warmth. “I see. The little old lady who thought that Linda Beufort was an enemy of the state because her make-up was an affront to decency was a realistic threat was she?”

“You’re missing the point.”

“No, Cas. _You are_. I liked Dorothy. She was a nice old woman who made me feel welcome here when nobody else did. She was a good person.”

An awkward silence falls. For once, Castiel hasn’t got all the answers. Dean allows himself a moment to enjoy this, not taking his eyes off Cas’s face; hoping – but doubting – that Cas is feeling seriously uncomfortable right now.

“Shit. Well, then. I’m sorry.”

Dean was not expecting _that_. Despite the pleasant shock of Castiel’s apology, Dean still has a point to make though. He is _not_ going through this again. “’ _Are you sorry because you think you should be or because you actually are_?’”

It’s quite impressive just how much Castiel manages to communicate in the simple rising of an eyebrow. ‘Don’t fucking push it’, for example. “I am. I didn’t realize that she was important to you.”

There’s real contrition there. It doesn’t come close to erasing what’s been done, but the point is that it _has been done_ , and so what good is rehashing it going to do? Dean held onto his anger at Alastair for years and it very nearly killed him.

“Fine.” Dean says and mostly means it. Then adds with a shaky sigh, “I need a fucking drink.”

Before Castiel can say anything or raise any objections, Dean is already up and off and making his way into the kitchen.  He doesn’t bother with a glass, just grabs the brand new bottle of Jack he’d bought on his way home, twists off the lid and takes a deep swig, familiar heat sliding down the back of his throat.

By the time Dean lowers the bottle, Castiel is there, closing in on him, cornering Dean against the counter. He watches Dean as he swallows, gaze heated, but there’s a hint of disapproval behind his eyes.

In a totally mature act of defiance, Dean takes another deep pull from the bottle. Grips it tight around the neck and points at Castiel, “Don’t you _dare_ be judging me right now.”

Castiel holds his hands up in the universal sign for surrender, smiles wryly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“This isn’t over.” Dean mutters, filling his mouth with more whisky. Swallows. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do. Like how the fuck you got into my house that night. Some Houdini shit right there.”

“A magician never reveals his tricks –“

“– He does if he wants to get laid ever again –“

“– the explanation is nearly always disgustingly mundane.”

Dean looks at him then. Really looks. Soft bow of his lips, stubble rough against Dean’s fingertips when he reaches up to stroke over his jaw. Pretty cheekbones, even prettier eyes. And that hair. Perpetually sex-ready.

“You really love me, huh Cas?”

Castiel gives Dean a withering glare, “Don’t ask stupid questions.” Though he must take it as a green-light that Dean’s over his hissy-fit because he removes the bottle from Dean’s hands, caps it and sets it on the counter beside his hip, and moves in closer, sliding a strong thigh between Dean’s.

Humming contentedly, Dean grabs a handful of that luscious hair at the base of Cas’s neck, urges him in until they’re so close that they’re sharing breath. Hovering on the edge of the kiss that they both want, lips mere millimeters apart, Dean says, voice even and clear, “Then you’re gonna tell me _everything_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The bit about moral codes in regard to religion is actually a quote I nicked from Johan Hegg.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's too late for me. Save yourselves!
> 
> Uhm. Warnings for some gore, some breathplay and possibly some errors that I shall rectify when I'm not about to die at my laptop.

Dean is willing to concede that whoever said knowledge is power _may_ have been onto something. In the right circumstances.

Though, right now, knowledge feels more like a burden than anything of any actual use.

So Dean knows stuff. Now what?

He’s loathe to admit that Castiel was kind of sort of right. What difference does it make? It hasn’t changed things between them; how could it? Dean knows the absolute worst that Castiel has to offer and yet he’s still here. Sitting in the passenger seat of his shitty car, buckled in, like it actually matters.

There are still things that Dean doesn’t know. Is content not knowing for the time being, but maybe will ask if they become relevant. But overall, he’s found out that getting answers to questions like “Did you pay those two in the Paradise Lounge to send me the right way?” only results in long, winding, and exceptionally _boring_ explanations about the intricacies of bribery.

Castiel’s bald-faced honesty has been refreshing though, if a little blunt for Dean’s tastes – apparently only trial and error made it clear the length of time it takes for an autopsy to be completed – and he’s less grossed out than he is impressed at Castiel’s dedication and tenacity.

It’s more than a little warped, but the normality ship sailed a long time ago with, Dean clutching his bosom and waving his hanky in farewell as it disappeared over the burnt sienna horizon.

He glances across at Castiel. It’s eerily reminiscent of the night that they killed Alastair, nothing but smudged charcoal outlines and shadows and shades. Like an artist’s impression of the personification of danger. So beautiful.

Dean never stood a chance; he was lost the moment that he first saw Cas.

Cas says the same thing about Dean.

Of course, for Dean, that moment is easy to pinpoint. For Cas… well not so much. He says two months, give or take, since he saw Dean in the library one day, stacking a load of James Pattersons. Dean’s gut is telling him that there’s a lot more to it than that – and he’s actually listening for a change – but for now, Cas’s answer will do.

He’s learning how to pick his battles.

Like now, for instance.

“Why do you have such a crap car?”

Castiel cuts Dean a look that, even in the near pitch-blackness, conveys so much disdain, Dean can’t help but bite back a smile.  But instead of defending the undefendable, he simply says, “Think about it, Dean.”

So Dean does. Why would someone with as much money as Cas – and he does have a lot of money, _like a lot_ , to the point where Dean’s kind of offended that he only got four hundred bucks for fighting some junkies – be driving around in a shit car?

“To not draw attention to how rich you are?”

“Partly.”

“Because getting blood stains out of a Mercedes Benz is a son of a bitch?”

Dean can hear the wry smile in Castiel’s voice when he replies, “See how rewarding thinking can be?”

 _Asshole._  

 

***

 

Well, it seems that Dean wasn't too far wrong about ‘it’ being burying bodies in the woods. Just a little to the left of center.

Dean exits the car, crunch and rustle of leaves underfoot, scent of moss and mulch in the air. He stretches. Catches bits and pieces of the night-time wilderness soundtrack of bird and bug noises. “You should have said we were going somewhere nice, Cas. I woulda dressed up.”

Dean doesn’t need to look to know that his sense of humor is wasted on Castiel. Sammy argues that it was crystallized at age fifteen, but Dean prefers the term, ‘preserved’.

However, this _is_ pretty funny. For fucks’s sake, it’s an abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere. If Dean isn’t allowed to poke fun at the absurdities associated with serial killers, and being involved with one – ‘cause there’s no doubt there; eleven is pretty conclusive by anyone’s standards – then there’s no way that he’ll be able to deal.

And he so badly wants to be able to deal.

Dean snorts out an ungracious laugh. It’s ridiculous.

As if he can sense what Dean is thinking, Castiel mutters sullenly, “It’s a cliché for a reason.” He clicks on the flashlight, keeping the pale beam low to the ground.

Dean tries not to think too hard about what that reason may be. “Yeah, yeah. Lay on, Macduff.”

He dutifully trudges after Castiel, stumbling a few times, feet getting tangled in undergrowth and fuck-knows-what, until Castiel reaches back and takes Dean’s hand in his own, interlacing their fingers. His palms are warm and smooth and Dean realizes that this is the first time they’ve held hands.

There’s gotta be something wrong with that.

As they approach the grey block of a building together, Dean’s stomach turns over, apprehension overriding flippancy and he squeezes Cas’s hand tighter.

Cas doesn’t say anything, just squeezes back, before letting go to reach for the sliding door. It isn’t locked and Dean’s a little surprised about that.

But then again, it kind of makes sense. A little higher up there are empty spaces filled with jagged fangs of glass. Some much larger than others. If someone was really determined to get in – and that’s a pretty big if – they could easily knock out the remaining glass of a window. A lock isn’t going to stop anyone.

Castiel snags Dean’s hand again, pulls him into the warehouse.

It’s damn near pitch black inside, thin shards of moonlight barely making it through from outside, creating elongated shadows from stacks of pallets long since neglected. It smells of rust and ammonia, and the stale air is heavy, like a physical presence, foreboding and just really fucking unpleasant. Altogether, it’s not exactly a destination that he’d recommend to the average dating couple, but for budding psychopaths, he’d give it four out of five stars on Trip Advisor.

Castiel takes the lead again, steering them through the pitch black, piss-weak beam of the flashlight kept at a pretty level height, a few feet in front of them. He’s clearly well acquainted with the place, not putting a foot wrong. Dean, on the other hand, feels the underside of his boots coming up against all manner of things, some hard and crunchy – probably needles – and other soft and squishy – dead animals? Sponges? Beanie babies? – it’s all gross, and probably diseasey, and he’s about to open his mouth and tell Cas so, when they finally reach a dark silhouette that closely resembles a door, with a very thin sliver of light seeping out from underneath.

If he hadn’t been looking down to try and decipher the soggy thing he’d just trodden in, then Dean probably wouldn’t have noticed it.

Castiel releases Dean’s hand again and produces a key from inside his jacket. Dean hears the slow clunk of the lock mechanism, and watches on as Cas shoves his entire weight against the door. Once, twice. It gives on the third attempt and groans open, metal scraping across concrete in a way that makes Dean screw his face up; the sound severe and loud in the otherwise stale silence.

Cas switches the flashlight off. Shoves it in his back left pocket. “Come on,” he murmurs, pulling his shoulders back in the leather jacket, all solid lines and strength, narrow hips rolling easily as he strides into the room. Confident, equable and so in control, that it’s hard not to admire him.

Dean, on the other hand, is sure he’s about to suffer a fucking cardiac arrest; his knees are weak – and not in the just-had-earth-shattering-sex way – and his heart is banging hard against his ribcage, desperately seeking an escape route.

_Too late now, you bastard thing._

The dingy room is tiny; probably no larger than a prison cell at best, and it’s lit only by a small paraffin lamp – similar to the one in the church.  The smell though. Jesus fucking Christ. Blood, rot, death.

There’s a figure strapped down into a chair, which is anchored in the center of the concrete floor by metal brackets. At his bound feet, there’s a nearly-empty bottle of water. The man’s – and Dean’s pretty sure it is a dude – torso is barely visible through cross-hatched patterns of welts and wounds, gouged skin crusted with dried brown blood, covered with a rainbow smattering of bruises; a canvas of gore and pain. His arms – mottled with blood, battered and filthy – are pulled taut behind his back, roped to the chair.

It looks like a pretty uncomfortable position, but it’s probably the least of the guy’s worries right now.

At this point, Dean’s feeling pretty nauseous. He’s beginning to understand that the tasks that Cas set as J (Castiel _James_ Novak, for fuck’s sake) were some kind of weird gentle escalation that would prepare him for the use of force and the appearance of gore.

Though, there’s not much that can prepare for this. Imagining something and being faced with the actuality in glorious technicolor and Dolby digital surround sound, are two completely different ends of a pretty fucked up spectrum.

The whole incident with Alastair is a separate issue, doesn’t count. Because, well. Alastair just doesn’t count. For anything.

Dean swallows, tries to steady his breathing into something less likely to result in him passing out.

Castiel walks briskly to the center of the room, wet slap of his boots through what is most likely a charming mixture of blood and piss and says, calm as anything, “Rise and shine, Tom.” He nudges the guy’s foot, like you might do to check whether something gross is dead or not.

There’s a low groan. Dean’s not entirely sure whether it’s him or Tom. He sways on his feet.

Showing his eerie knack for moving undetected, Cas is suddenly there in front of Dean, firm grip on his shoulder, holding him steady. Concern softening his features, he asks, “Are you alright, Dean?”

“Mmhmm.” Dean manages a jerky nod. “Thanks for bringing me to your sex dungeon and all Cas, but I think I’m a little more vanilla than this.”

Castiel smiles at him, bright and beautiful, and it compels Dean to try harder, to be good for Cas, so his next nod is a little firmer.  “I’ll be okay. Promise. Just,” he flounders, gestures uselessly with his hand, “Y’know. Takes some getting used to.”

Still not apparently all the way convinced, Castiel reluctantly lets Dean go. Waits for a second, like he’s concerned that Dean’s gonna crumple to the floor like a puppet with the strings cut, but Dean impresses them both when he remains upright. Still a little queasy, but it’s fading. With one last glance at Dean, Cas says, “The smell will pass in a moment; it only takes approximately ninety seconds for sensory adaptation to occur.”

_Longest ninety seconds ever._

The guy – Tom – is looking up now, staring at them, one eye swollen shut and the other crimson with burst blood vessels, and isn’t that just creepy as all fuck? His gaze lands on Dean, and he coughs, spits out a mouthful of blood and saliva onto the floor. “Oh, shit.”

There’s a part of Dean’s brain that is trapped in a loop, a skipping record, crackling static, stuck on: _Cas did this, Cas did this, Cas did this._

“ _’Oh shit’_ is right.” Castiel says ominously, completely different from the man who spoke to Dean moments ago. Colder, more detached. Like how he’d addressed Alastair; all restrained anger and authority.

It’s a little bit hot.

_So not the time._

Right. Hmm. Clearly Dean is missing something important here. “Who is he, Cas?”

Castiel doesn’t take his eyes off Tom. “He’s one of Alastair’s men. He’d been following you since you moved here. Feeding information back. It’s how Alastair knew that you worked at the library, where you lived.”

_Holy shit._

Well, that certainly confirms Dean’s theory that J had been intercepting bad guys on his behalf. There’s a dizzying relief there somewhere. Buried beneath the deep revulsion.

Another gift. An offering.

“Are you going to kill him?” It might seem obvious, but he and Cas have very different opinions about that.

This time, it’s not Castiel who answers, but Tom, voice rusty and strained. “No, you are.”

Well, tonight is just full of surprises.

“Right.” Dean says. “Uhm. I’m not sure…“ … _how to finish that sentence? …what the hell I’m doing here? …whether this is some fucked up dream and I’ll wake up any second?_

He looks to Cas. For what, he doesn’t know. Guidance, confirmation or denial, who knows? Either way, Castiel gives Dean a small, offhand shrug. “How it happens is mostly immaterial.”

So, that’s Cas speak for yes, then.

Taking a deep breath of putrid air _,_ Dean steps forward to stand beside Cas. This is an opportunity right here. There are things that he doesn’t know about Alastair and his motivations. And it’s not like that fucker will be giving him answers without the use of a Ouija board. And even then, he’d most likely be a spiteful prick about it.

Which, given the circumstances, would possibly be fair.

Though, he’s just as unlikely to get anything out of Tom, especially since Cas has helpfully made him aware that living beyond tonight is out of the question. However, there is always the possibility that he might see it as nothing left to lose.

 _Of course there is_.

“How did you find me?” It’s been bothering Dean for a while, since Alastair mentioned it, in fact. And now he knows that the bastards had him pegged from pretty much the beginning, well it’s just kind of odd. They must have been given a head start somehow. There’s no way that they just threw a dart at a map of America and came up with Lawrence, Kansas. Nobody knew but Sam, and Dean was pretty careful; changing the plates on his car, leaving everything behind. He even bought a burner phone and binned it in Aurora.

Tom’s reply is a counter, rather than an answer. Because nothing is ever that easy. “Why didn’t you go into witness protection?”

Touché.

It’s something that he and Sam had discussed at great length, Dean insisting it a waste of time and resources, Sam arguing that it would keep Dean safe. But Dean knew. He knew that Alastair would have found him one way or another. And did. Nothing would have kept him safe.

_Except Cas._

Cas was there all along, working in the background, stopping Alastair from hurting him again.

It’s a weird crystallizing moment for Dean. Of course, he’s known objectively what Castiel has been doing for him. But again, being faced with the reality is completely different. And, like it or not, this _is_ the reality.

For whatever reason, Cas saw something in Dean worth protecting. Worth keeping safe. When nobody else did. Nobody gave a shit when Dean lost his mom, when his dad became a violent waste of oxygen, when Dean had to turn to someone like Alastair just to keep his baby brother safe. Nobody stepped in and offered Dean a smidgen of help. No-one stepped in to stop the abuse.

Cas did. Castiel _destroys_ those who so much as look at Dean in the wrong way. It’s overkill – in the very literal sense of the word – but in Castiel’s mind, he’s making up for all those people who turned their backs when they should have been embracing Dean. Enough people saw and enough people did nothing.

Cas is doing _something_.

Dean gets it.

He’s grateful for it.

Riding high on a wave of righteous anger, he holds out his hand, palm up and grates out, “Gimme the knife.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath that sounds like it comes from Cas, but a moment later a knife with an ornate handle is slapped into Dean’s palm, and he immediately recognizes it as the one that he and Cas plunged through Alastair’s heart.

It’s not something that can easily be forgotten, really.

“You’ve come a long way from the timid little thing that Alastair used to play with.” Tom says, but it’s mostly drowned out by Castiel talking over him, cradling Dean’s face in his hands, staring right _into_ him, like he’s always been able to do.

Dean runs his thumb over the design carved into the wood.

“You can do this, Dean. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

_“You survived. You’re alive. You’re here with me right now, which already means that you’ve beaten him once. You won. You may have walked through fire and over glass, but you’re still here and you’re still smiling and you’re still so goddamn beautiful that it hurts. You know what it feels like to almost lose everything. And that means that you stand for something. And I want you to know that in me you have someone who’s willing to stand with you too. Against whatever or whoever. I meant what I said Dean. I’m not losing you now that I have you.”_

“Yeah.” Dean says, voice quiet. He wishes he had as much faith in himself. He’ll get there though.

“I’m right here, Dean.”

“Yeah. How should I…?”

He has no idea of the best way to kill someone. It’s not an issue that many librarians face on a daily basis.

Just as well that he’s with an expert, really.

He follows Castiel until he’s standing directly behind Tom, who begins thrashing as much as the ropes allow. Which isn’t a lot. Dean grabs a fistful of Tom’s hair, yanking back his head, exposing the line of his throat, the dip of his collarbone, caked in blood and sweat.

With a trembling hand, Dean holds the blade against the taut skin of Tom’s throat, just on the pulse point. He tries to force himself push down, to make the cut, but he can’t. It’s the morgue all over again, but this body has a heartbeat. His chest is rising and falling in ragged pulses and whilst he’s clearly a bastard, he’s not Alastair. It’s not a question of whether he deserves it or not either; that’s a moot point. Cas has already said that he’s gonna die tonight whether it be by Dean’s hand or Castiel’s. It’s just that there really is no coming back from this. With Alastair, the driving force was pure hatred, it made it easy. Here, Dean’s – relatively – sound of mind.

It’s murder in cold blood.

“Cas, I can’t.”

Dean feels the familiar warmth of Castiel’s body fitting tight to the curve of his spine, fingers of Cas’s left hand resting low on Dean’s stomach, as he reaches around with his right, covering Dean’s hand over the knife. He pushes down. “You can, Dean. Just like this. Nice…and slow. Make him feel it.”

Blood wells up around the blade, crimson spilling down over Tom’s collarbone in a thin rivulet that has Dean balking, loosening his grip on the knife as much as he can with Cas’s hand holding it still.

Dean sucks in a deep breath. It’s not deep enough. “I can’t. I really can’t.” He releases Tom’s hair, draws himself back into Cas as tightly as he can.

Fuck.

_Weak._

“It’s okay.” Castiel reassures, pressing a kiss just below Dean’s ear. “It’s all going to be okay, Dean.” He removes the blade from Dean’s iron-strength grip, prizing his fingers off one by one, and moves back, allowing Dean to get away. “Just stand back.”

Yeah. Standing back is something he can do. Anyone can do that, right? Anyone can stand there and just let shit happen. After all, it’s been Dean’s M.O. for years.

Whether he commits the act or not is – as Castiel said – immaterial. This is murder in anyone’s eyes.

Except Cas’s. In Cas’s, this is retribution, this is justice.

Dean moves away on unsteady legs, frustrated with himself, annoyed at the shred of compassion that he’s clinging onto, like it’ll somehow keep him human. He knows it won’t. Isn’t even sure he wants it to anymore.  

 _Weak_.

No, fuck that.

He may not be able to bring himself to physically slice someone’s throat open _yet_ but that doesn’t mean that he can’t earn his place beside Cas in other ways.

He can do this.

“You liked spying on me, huh?” Dean says, dropping down to his haunches in front of Tom. This close Dean can see where recent puffy scars have been intersected over the older purpling ones. He idly wonders how long Tom has been here. Not that it’s going to matter in a few seconds. “Kinda ironic really, because I’m gonna be the last thing you ever see.”

He catches Castiel’s eye then. Castiel, hovering above him, who looks more like an avenging angel than Dean has ever seen him; burning righteousness on Dean’s behalf, totally focused and entirely lethal.

Tom snarls as Castiel yanks his head back, forcing his eyes away from Dean, pressing the blade over the cut that they started together.

Dean pushes up to his feet again, making sure that he’s in Tom’s very narrow line of sight. “Give my regards to Alastair.”

And with that, Castiel sweeps the blade across Tom’s throat in an efficient burst of controlled brutality; seamless and beautiful - in a macabre kind of way – and Dean finds himself unable to look away from Cas in the center of the scene, eyes alive and shining.

As Tom bleeds out between them, pretty red ribbons, painful gurgling sounds filling the air as he breathes his last, Dean and Cas share a moment that Dean will never forget as long as he lives; a still frame that seems to stretch out forever.

Tom’s finally, mercifully silent, lifeless body slumped sideways, when Castiel says, sincere and intense as ever, “I did it for you, Dean. All of it.”

Dean swallows, dry throat clicking. “Yeah, I know Cas.” Then, because he figures that it’s long overdue, “Thank you.”

He’s beginning to see how good it can be.

 

***

 

The shower is like a balm on Dean’s tattered nerves, warming him to the bones, relaxing and ridding him of the ickiness of that warehouse. And what happened there.

Well, not entirely. But that’s the point.

He’s still annoyed with himself for not being able to go through with it. Tom was undoubtedly a bad man; someone who worked for Alastair, stalked Dean. Followed him for months.

 _Kinda like Cas_.

No. Nothing like Cas. Castiel is the one who kept Dean safe. Continues to keep Dean safe. Would never hurt Dean, would probably commit hara-kiri if he ever did.

He may have a _slightly_ off-kilter way of showing it, but Cas loves Dean. And seriously, who doesn’t want someone in their life who is ready to go to war for them? Who would kill for them? Despite everything, Dean _knows_ he can rely on Cas. It’s the first time in his life that he can truly say that.

He wants to be able to pay Castiel back, show him how much it means, just needs to figure out how.

Something in the air shifts, and Dean blinks open his eyes, nearly jumping out of his skin when he sees Cas standing there, watching him with an intensity that Dean has grown familiar – but not entirely comfortable – with.

“You wanna be careful Cas, this is starting to become a habit.” Dean mutters, more composed than he feels, tipping his head back underneath the water, trying to savor the warm spray rather than focusing on Castiel. He feels Cas step in closer and senses his touch a split second before it becomes physical, hands settling firmly on the cut of Dean’s hipbones. He sways into the contact, unintentionally, instinctive.

Cas’s close proximity is having an effect – as it always does – and he can feel the slow curl of anticipation in his gut strengthening into something more pleasurable.

He slants one eye open after a long minute of nothing, “What do you want Cas?”

It’s a loaded question.

Castiel’s lips curve into a slow smile, eyes dark and hungry, and it’s possibly the most dangerous thing that Dean’s ever seen. Including tonight’s events.

“Hmm,” Castiel’s right hand smoothes up and over Dean’s ribs, thumb brushing over a nipple. Dean shivers, despite the warmth of the water cascading down his back. He reaches out to steady himself, palms flat against Cas’s upper chest, warm skin damp beneath his spread fingertips.  “The same thing I always want.” He slides his hand to Dean’s back, fingers trailing down the dip of his spine.

“Yeah?” Dean’s voice is nothing more than a hitch in breath. Curling one hand over Cas’s shoulder, he lets the other wander downwards, tracing over Castiel’s toned stomach, muscles tensing beneath the touch, and lower. Turning his wrist, he grazes his fingers along the underside of Cas’s hard dick. Asks, “What’s that, then?”

With something akin to a growl, Castiel crushes in closer, breath ghosting across Dean’s cheek. “You.”

Stroking Cas’s cock feather-light from base to tip, power-drunk and far too turned on, Dean turns his face a little, just enough so he can see Castiel’s plush mouth, the slant of his nose, “How’d you want me, Cas?”

Castiel groans lowly, “On your knees. Want you on your knees for me.”

Dean obeys wordlessly, sinking to his knees, altering his grip on Cas’s dick, but refusing to let go completely, sweeping his thumb across the slit, smearing precome all over the head. Without Dean’s body blocking the shower spray, the water hits Cas in the chest, but he doesn’t seem to notice; too busy staring down at Dean as Dean looks up, blinking droplets from his eyelashes.

It’s a little uncomfortable, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except for the way Castiel is looking at him in a fusion of awe and desire.

“This what you want?” Dean asks, voice reed thin, jacking Cas’s cock a couple of times while he waits for the obvious answer.

“ _Fuck_.” Castiel mutters reaching down to cup Dean’s jaw, tender and loving and such a contrast to the stunning brutality of earlier, “You have _no_ idea.”

Dean’s pretty sure he has at least _some_ idea.

He curls his tongue over the head of Cas’s dick, tasting precome, all salty and earthy and so fucking perfect. He lets out a quiet moan before gently suckling on the spongey head, a cruel tease that earns him a sharp, ragged inhale from Cas.

Flattening his tongue against the ridge of Cas’s cock, Dean sucks him down, hot and wet and probably too much spit. It’s been a long time since Dean’s given a blow job, but it doesn’t seem to matter to Cas as he tilts his head back, exposing the long line of his throat, eyes closed and he twists his fingers in Dean’s hair, nails digging into his scalp. It hurts, like everything with Cas does, but it’s worth it, so fucking worth it.

He skates his palm along his own cock as Cas starts to move his hips in shallow thrusts, fucking into Dean’s mouth a fraction deeper every time. Cas’s cock seems huge, rock hard beneath velvety skin and Dean can feel the way his thighs tremble slightly, stomach muscles clenched taut, pulled tight against the need to shove himself down Dean’s throat.

Dean’s dick aches, twitching in his fist as he takes as much of Cas’s length as he can without choking. Cas is cradling the curve of Dean’s skull with both hands, forcing him down further, to take more, and with his free hand, Dean digs his fingers into the firm flesh of the back of Cas’s thigh, swallowing around the head of his cock, throat fluttering.

"Oh _fuck_. Fuck. You’re mine, right Dean? Made for me. Your dick, your ass, _fuck,_ your mouth…”

Dean looks up through his eyelashes, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. His vision is hazy; steam from the shower and the lack of oxygen conspiring against him. Cas is staring down at him, transfixed, mouth parted on the brink of a curse, and all Dean can see is his salvation and damnation rolled into one beautiful entity; a walking contradiction that even given the gift of immortality and all the knowledge in the universe, still wouldn’t see him solving the puzzle of Cas.

He’s muzzy and lightheaded, and close, so close, but he doesn’t wanna come yet, doesn’t want this to be over.

Cas pulls back, shifts his hips, changes the angle so that with each smooth thrust, he’s fucking Dean’s face, nudging his dick further and further down Dean’s throat, until he’s as far as he can go, holding there until Dean’s vision starts to go blurry again, instinctively fighting for breath and he’s jacking his own cock faster as utter filth spills from Cas’s lips.

There’s a rushed warning in there somewhere, before Cas’s cock is twitching and flooding Dean’s throat and mouth with the bitter warmth of his come. Dean’s on the precipice of passing out, lungs on fire, and it’s so fucking _good_. He wants to come before he can breathe again, doesn’t want Cas to pull out, and there are black spots dancing in front of his eyes, and fuck _fuck **fuck**_ –

Dean’s orgasm blindsides him completely, tripping over every single nerve in his body, as he chokes on the heady combination of Cas’s come and the sudden influx of air, hacking, wet gasps and Castiel drags him to his feet, peppering his face and neck with kisses, gentle words of praise murmured against his damp skin.

They stay there under the spray, Cas holding Dean in his arms, neither of them making the move to let go, until the water turns cold and they’re forced apart.

 

***

 

It’s a beautiful day when Dean wakes up, only marred by the fact that he’s alone in his bed. There’s a note folded up on the nightstand, written in J’s bold script.

Dean groans. Or tries to. His throat feels like he swallowed a bagful of gravel. Totally in a good way though. Like Lee Marvin in his golden years.

He’ll read it after some coffee.

He shoves himself out of bed, making sure not to trip over his clothes and boots on the floor where he’d left them last night, in his haste to get the fuck into the shower.

Except. They’re not there.

One quick glance across the room reveals his boots neatly drawn together in front of the wardrobe. His jeans and shirt are in the laundry basket.

Ah, a house-trained serial killer. Perfect.

He pads towards the over-spilling basket. He pulls the jeans out, checking for blood splatter or any kind of giveaway as to what happened. He quite likes this pair, doesn’t want to burn them unless he has to.

Besides the mud gathered at the hem, there’s nothing. Quite impressive, really. He'd always thought that the carotid sprays like a motherfucker when cut. Apparently not so much. Or Cas is really just that skilled.

Probably a little of both.

He quickly checks the pockets, looking for loose change or keys or whatever. He’s ruined more washing machines than he can count by not emptying out his pockets properly.

There’s nothing. Empty.

There’s something wrong about that. But what, Dean can’t quite remember.

And then he does.

Oh fuck.

Fuck fuck, shit fuck.

He searches the pockets again.

Benny’s card is missing.

Which means one of two things: Either he’s dropped it at the warehouse. In which case, he’ll have to drive out there and hunt around in amongst all the gross things in the daylight.

Or. Cas found it.

Fuck.

Dean already knows the answer, but he has to be sure. Can’t go leaping to conclusions when the stakes are so high.

With shaking hands, Dean fumbles around for his cell. Finds it on top of the dresser. _Fucking Castiel_. Scrolls down to Cas’s number. Presses call. Almost immediately, it cuts off into the generic voicemail.

_Fuck._


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry.

Dean isn’t sure if he’s going to throw up, put his fist through the dry wall or scream, so he splits the difference and settles for a thoroughly impotent display of frustration and rage in the form of repeatedly jamming his index finger against the ‘end call’ button on his touchscreen, whilst aggressively hissing every curse word that enters his mind.

Just when things were starting to go right.

Or wrong. ‘Cause there’s not much about last night that would be considered ‘right’. Except to people like Dean and Cas.

‘ _People like Dean and Cas’_.

Because it’s already a ‘them vs. us’ thing. Dean’s not even surprised at how easily that mentality comes. Maybe it was always there, lying dormant or some shit.

Now’s probably not the best time for armchair psychology and self-reflection. Time is a luxury that Benny doesn’t have.

Goddammit.

Dean probably should have eaten the card.

Or Cas shouldn’t be such a fucking psychopath.

_Eh. Potay-to, potah-to._

Think. Think.

So, it’s more than likely that Cas has Benny already. May have done for a couple of hours. A glance at his phone tells him that it’s just after eleven a.m. Shit. Make that more than ‘a couple’.

Dean tamps down the urge to panic. He is _not_ going to lose his shit. He’s going to remain calm and think this through, and –

_God fucking dammit, Castiel!_

Right. Focus. Deal.

Dean’s first instinct is to phone the Sheriff's office. Find out if Benny showed up for work. Do the same with Cas and the university. But that would draw attention to either or both of them, and that’s not going to help much. Not in the long-term for Dean and Cas at least.

_Interesting that Cas’s freedom comes before Benny’s welfare._

Interesting. But not surprising.

So that route is out.

Which only leaves one option. Dean’s going to have to trek it out to the warehouse. Because there is literally nothing/nowhere else that Dean think of.

_Ugh._

Not only is the thought of going back to that disease ridden Hell hole the least appealing idea since the invention of the tofu burger, but the bigger issue is that Dean doesn’t actually know where the fucking place is.

Which – sneaky fucker that Castiel is – was probably at least half of the intention when he drove Dean out there in the dead of night.

Of course, Castiel could have twenty abandoned warehouses all over the state for all Dean actually knows, but…

_The note._

The note.

Plonking himself down on the edge of the bed – he’s not sure that he wants to be standing for this – Dean plucks the folded piece of lined notepaper from the nightstand. Unfolding it, he sees that Cas has taken the whole ‘brevity is the soul of wit’ thing to heart, because there in black and white is the address of what Dean assumes is the warehouse followed by the five words that started this whole damn thing:

Come and play with me.

 

 

***

 

Dean drives to the address on the stupid fucking note with all the skill and care that’s expected in the current situation, gripping the wheel tight so tight that it hurts and cursing out Castiel the whole way. When he turns off the highway and on to a rutted, pitted back road, tires crunching, throwing up smoke and gravel, each ping to the metal of the Impala’s body making him wince, he knows that he has the right place. Remembers bumping over it last night in the Ford.

A few teeth-clenching moments later, it’s confirmed as the warehouse looms into view, looking just as foreboding at midday as it had at midnight.

At least this time Dean’ll be able to see what he’s treading in.

Though, he’s not entirely sure that’s a good thing.

Shutting off the engine, he flings the car door open, leaves it that way, as he sprints up towards the warehouse. There’s no easy – or more accurately, quick – path to follow; it’s all overgrown weeds and low branches that Dean doesn’t remember from last night, slapping and scratching at him as he runs.

It soon becomes obvious as to why that is. Castiel’s Ford is parked around the side, obviously having made it further up the dirt road than Dean dared to bring his Baby.

The sliding door is already open and Dean’s stomach swoops as he barrels inside, trying his hardest to ignore the various textures underfoot.

_Just don’t look down. For fuck’s sake, don’t look down._

He rushes through the building, banging on every door that he finds, shouting out Castiel’s name.

_Definitely need to start working out more._

The room that Tom had died in – and that Dean had been hoping to find Cas and Benny in – is open, Tom-less and relatively clean compared to Dean’s memory of it.

_Does Cas never sleep?_

He hurries on to the next room down the hall, throwing open the door so hard that it rebounds off the wall with a dull clunk.

_Yahtzee._

It’s a larger area in here and infinitely cleaner. It still smells of ammonia and a dozen other funky things that Dean doesn’t want to think too hard about, but there’s no death hanging in the air like, well like a bad smell.

Dean’s eyes are drawn to his psychotic boyfriend immediately, because of course they are.

Castiel is leaning against an old disused sink, arms folded across his chest and legs crossed at his ankles, looking like he can’t wait to scold Dean for being late or something equally demented. The familiar hunting knife is in his right hand, steel blade pointing down towards his hip. He’s wearing the same clothes as last night, walk-of-shame style, but he’s still the most beautiful thing that Dean has ever seen.

Next, Dean seeks out the police officer who only yesterday had smiled at Dean with warm eyes and nothing but kindness. He’s standing ramrod straight, back to the west-facing wall, wrists and ankles bound by wire attached at both ends to swivel eyes in steel plates screwed into the concrete. He has a strip of duct tape across his mouth.

Though there’s a cut high on Benny’s forehead and he looks haggard and angry as fuck, he doesn’t appear too badly hurt. A few bruises, a couple of minor wounds that trickle blood, but none of his body parts or appendages have been removed.

_Bet Cas is itching to change that._

“Hello, Dean.”

Chest heaving as he struggles to get his breath back from his mad dash around this fortress of fucking solitude, Dean feigns casualness, “Err hey, babe. How’s it going?”

Castiel fixes him with an amused glare, looking every inch the professor that he is. He doesn’t say anything though, merely watches, waiting to see what Dean is going to do.

The right thing, hopefully.

No preamble, because there’s no point, Dean says, “Cas, you gotta let him go.”

Immediate. Irrefutable. “No I don’t.”

Alright then. “Cas. Let him go.”

Castiel regards Dean as one might an errant child. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Benny’s nostrils are flaring as he struggles for air, pulling in shallow breaths. Dean moves towards over to Benny slowly, keeping his eyes on Cas with the same kind of caution one might use when dealing with a wild animal.  “Cas, he can’t fucking breathe, okay? I’m just gonna –“ He rips the tape away from Benny’s mouth, wincing in sympathy when it catches on his beard. “Sorry.” Dean murmurs as Benny sucks in a deep, gasping breath.

Dean rounds on Cas, letting the piece of used tape flutter to the floor. “The fuck is wrong with you? I thought we’d covered this.”

“So did I.” Cas replies matter-of-factly, completely unaffected. “Several times in fact. The most recent being last night.” He flashes a pointed, almost juvenile smirk in Benny’s direction before turning his attention back to Dean. “You’re mine. Not his. Not anybody else’s who thinks that they have the right to put their hands on you.”

It’s childish and stupid, and possessive as fuck and yet… and yet _kind of hot_.

For fuck’s sake.

“Cas, you can’t just go around torturing people for daring to flirt with or _look_ at me.”

Castiel tilts his head, gives Dean a look that suggests that yes, yes he can. And he will.

Dean tries to reach for reason. There’s none within his grasp, so he switches tack. “Okay, okay. Let me rephrase. You don’t know where to draw the line, so I’m drawing it for you. In permanent fucking marker, okay? You will _not_ be doing that from now on.”

It’s about as effective as Dean was realistically expecting; like smacking a grizzly bear on the nose with a rolled up newspaper.

Castiel advances on Dean, slowly and with an almost innocent curiosity in those blue eyes. The effect is only ruined by the six inch blade in his grasp. “No? Are you going to stop me Dean?”

They both know the answer to that question.

Dean swallows hard.

Just then, Benny cuts in, voice fraught and pleading. “It’s okay Dean. I can get you away from him. Just let me go and we’ll put him behind bars.”

Dean doesn’t doubt it. Benny seems like a good guy and in another lifetime… In another lifetime he probably would have still fallen for the psychopath with the stunning blue eyes and penchant for waistcoats and mind-fuckery.

And therein lies the fundamental flaw in Benny’s plan. Because of course, he’s assuming that Dean is the victim, that Cas is somehow forcing him into this, not that Dean has chosen to be here, that his free will is completely one hundred per cent intact. He’s assuming that Dean wants to be free of Cas, when the exact opposite is true.

There’s a sarcastic twist to Cas’s mouth, a wicked glint in his eyes. He raises a brow, “Yes, Dean. He can help you get away from the big bad monster. He’ll keep you safe.” Looking over at Benny, he says, “Isn’t that right, Officer Lafitte?”

Benny’s eyes dart frantically between the two of them, clearly not understanding what he’s missing here. Besides either the MAOA gene or a serious case of hybristophilia.

But Dean gets exactly what Cas is driving at with all the subtlety of a hearse idling on a curb outside of an old people’s home.

“You’re a fucking asshole.” There’s no real heat behind it.

Impassive as ever, Castiel lifts a shoulder in a lazy half-shrug.  “Is that suddenly an issue for you?”

“I’ll be honest, Cas. Right now it’s not the most endearing of your qualities.”

Benny, rather sensibly is keeping quiet. Dean’s sort of hoping that he’s trying to MacGyver himself loose.

Maybe Dean can help with that by stalling. Though, what happens after that, Dean isn’t quite sure. He’ll burn that bridge when he gets to it.

“He’s one of the good guys, Cas.” Dean’s assuming, ‘cause otherwise this whole thing could be really awkward.

“Is that supposed to mean something?” Castiel asks, all snark and sarcasm gone. “No, I genuinely want to know. Is it supposed to mean something to me? More importantly, is it supposed to mean something to _you_?”

Dean wants to say yes, it’s on the tip of his tongue to say yes. But of course, he’s known too many men who prided themselves on being ‘good’ who did absolutely nothing to back up that claim. And yet, here’s Cas, who clearly is the furthest away from good as it gets and he’s the one doing everything.

Brings a whole new duality to the saying: ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.’

Dean doesn’t have much of an argument for Cas’s logic. Again. He’s beginning to realize that this whole thing might have been a deliberate maneuver on Cas’s part to somehow teach Dean a lesson.

Scratch that. It’s _definitely_ a deliberate maneuver to teach Dean a lesson.

Fuck’s sake.

It’s just unfortunate that Benny had to go getting tangled up in this by finding Dean attractive. Though, that’s not the actual problem is it? If Benny had simply found Dean attractive without making it known or without hiding behind the whole clichéd police officer here’s-my-card-give-me-a-call-if-you-ever-need-anything-wink-wink-nudge-nudge thing, then Cas would have been none the wiser.

And if Cas… well that one’s kinda obvious.

Dean feels trapped, stuck between the devil and deep blue sea. Only the devil doesn’t know that he’s the devil and instead thinks that it’s acceptable to kidnap police officers. Dean only wants a solution where the three of them can walk out of here, all agreeing that this was misunderstanding brought about by too much testosterone and not enough common fucking sense; Benny’s initial transgression of thinking with his dick and Cas’s follow up with the biggest overreaction since that Republican threw himself in front of his wife’s car to prevent her from voting Democrat.

He wishes he knew how to make it happen.

“Time to pick a side, Dean.”

Dean blinks. Once, twice. Then he’s closing the distance between himself and Cas, curving his right hand behind Castiel’s neck, bringing his face closer, touching their foreheads together, reaffirming their shared reality. “I thought I already had.” Then, before he can think better of it, he adds softly, just loud enough for only the two of them to hear, “Let him go, Cas. Please. Just this once.”

Castiel brushes his lips over Dean’s cheek, reassuring in that strange way that Cas can be when he’s not making Dean’s pulse race. “You know I can’t do that.” He pulls back enough to be able to look Dean in the eye. “Even if I wanted to – which I don’t. Tell me, what do you think is going to happen if I do as you ask?”

Dean glances at Benny without moving away from Cas. “What if he keeps quiet?”

He can almost _hear_ Castiel rolling his eyes. “He’s a police officer, Dean. You can’t realistically expect that he’ll walk out of here and not want to track us down. They’ll never leave us alone.”

Maybe in Cas’s world things really are that black and white. And red. But, here in the real world –which admittedly, Dean hasn’t been in touch with much recently – there are shades of gray.

He so badly wants to make this okay, but isn’t sure where to start.

Sadly he’s not given the chance.

Benny’s a big guy. All thick cords of muscle and brute strength. Dean might be taller, but he’s not racked up the same amount of upper body strength, nor is he currently running on nothing but adrenaline and rage. Which is why when Benny breaks away from his bindings and charges at him and Cas, Dean is rammed out of the way with relative ease.

He sprawls backwards, arms pin wheeling as he struggles to remain upright. Ultimately, it’s futile, because he ends up stumbling and falling, head rebounding off the nearest wall with a sickening crack. His vision fractures in a blast of pain and although he’s still standing – just – it takes him a few long moments to regain his equilibrium enough to realize it. His own well being very quickly becomes immaterial though, because a few feet away, grappling on the floor are Benny and Cas.

Benny is sitting astride Cas’s waist, face inches away, thick fingers wrapped around Castiel’s neck, pressing down, thumbs crushing in, threatening to collapse his windpipe and Dean has genuinely never been more terrified in his entire life.

There’s no time for anything but instinct, and without realizing it Dean’s reacting; staggering away from the wall, towards the two bodies and stooping to reach for the knife that must have been knocked from Cas’s grasp; there’s a wound on Benny’s arm bleeding sluggishly that indicates Cas didn’t go down without a fight. It can’t have been a long one though, because Castiel’s arms are currently pinned underneath Benny’s weight, strong elbows holding him in place, even as he struggles, and his eyes are beginning to roll back in his head as he’s slowly deprived of oxygen.

_No, no no no no._

Lunging wildly, throwing himself at Benny, Dean plunges the blade into his back, and somewhere between the scrape of metal against bone, Dean gets a lung. Underneath him, Benny thrashes. Dean works the blade out. Raises his arm high, plunges it back in, thick, wet sound of punctured flesh and thick streams of blood everywhere. Repeats as many times as it takes for the blue of Castiel’s eyes to return to him, a fierce kind of pride in them that warms Dean to his very recently tarnished soul, even as he takes the life of an innocent man.

Whimpering, Dean drops the knife with a clatter on the dirty warehouse floor and moves up and off Benny, shoving his lifeless body to one side with a concerted effort, but absolutely no care, before he’s clambering over Castiel, trembling hands slick with blood as he checks Cas over, feverish and shaken.

He’s aware of his lips moving, chanting Cas’s name like a benediction, a prayer, but he can barely hear it over his own pulse roaring in his ears, and the harsh sound of Castiel’s jagged breaths, sharp and painful. Cas is staring up at Dean with Benny’s blood on his face and neck, spattered like paint, like a gruesome Rorschach test. Fascinated, Dean smears his thumb over the rapidly forming bruising on Cas’s throat, crimson daub stark against the cream of Castiel’s skin.

There’s a buzz in Dean’s veins, a restless kind of electricity that has him hastily crushing his mouth against Cas’s in a way that’s almost painful, too much tongue, too much teeth, too much _everything_. And yet it’s not enough, Dean needs more; more of the way Cas tastes, the way he feels. Dean’ll never be able to get enough of this.

Can’t believe how close he came to losing this.

_Never again._

Castiel’s mouth moves against Dean’s, words of praise lost to the press of lips and slide of tongues. Dean doesn’t care. Doesn’t need to hear them for once. He knows.

Figuring that Cas probably needs to breathe more than ever, Dean reluctantly wrenches himself away, dropping his head down, resting it on Cas’s collarbone. Cas’s arms are holding Dean, palms pressed to his shoulder blades.

Barely more than a shared thought, Dean eventually says, “Well, shit.”

“An eloquent summary.” Castiel’s voice is soft and hoarse.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

Castiel gives a small nod. “Are you?”

They both know that Cas isn’t referring to Dean’s head injury. “Yeah.” Dean nuzzles at Castiel’s pulse point, iron-rich tang of blood overlaid with Cas’s natural scent. “Still have you. Didn’t even think about it.”

“…Thank you.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that, so instead he asks, “What now?”

Castiel goes to reply, stops himself, seems to weigh something up in his mind, before deciding. “Clean up. Get out of here. Get out of Lawrence.” Before Dean can respond one way or another, Castiel adds, “That last one isn’t strictly necessary. Just a suggestion.”

Dean thinks about it. There’s nothing here for him, but Cas. And if Cas wants to leave, then Dean’s going with him. He’d rather live in Cas’s world, than live without Cas in his.It’s kinda astounding in its simplicity, really.

“Alright. We’ll leave Lawrence,” Dean agrees, “on two conditions. We’re taking my car and burning yours.”

 

***

 

The fire crackles, thick gray smoke billowing upwards, devouring the sky and swallowing the sun.

They watch it for a while, standing in silence, shoulder to shoulder. It’s the most at peace Dean has been for years. There’s guilt there, of course there is. But it’s easy to deal with when Dean puts it in context. Cas has saved Dean’s life multiple times, literally and metaphorically, and now Dean has begun to repay the favor. The circumstances surrounding the recompense aren’t ideal, but when are they?

Castiel is okay. That’s the important thing.

Standing there in the middle of Bumblefuck, Kansas with dirt and soil compacted under his fingernails, Dean considers what he would have done if Benny had simply made a run for it. Would Dean have stopped Cas from going after him? Would Dean have let Cas kill him, but had no actual involvement himself?

Of course, it doesn’t fucking matter now. What’s done is done.

Doesn’t stop Dean wondering though. Like why did Benny go for Cas rather than trying to make a run for it? His escape route was clear. His path to Cas was a determined one; he bypassed Dean entirely to get to him. Like his life was less important than making sure Cas lost his.

Dean voices his thoughts aloud.

“I’d say that’s fairly obvious, wouldn’t you?” Castiel rasps, glow from the fire distorting and highlighting facial features that Dean’ll never stop finding fascinating.

Dean doesn’t think that it is obvious, hence why he asked, but he doesn’t say that. Instead he replies, “Yeah, guess so.”

They lapse back into a comfortable silence.

Dean uses the rare moment of serenity to mentally check off all the things that he needs to do before they leave. He’s gonna drop Cas off at his place, let him grab his essentials, then he’s gonna go home, do the same. Pick Cas up again (more than a little important), make a quick stop at the library then get the fuck outta Dodge. At some point they should both probably change clothes too.

Simple.

And that’s all he has to show for his time in Lawrence. Nobody to say goodbye to, nothing to miss. Which probably would have disheartened Dean at one point, but now? Now it just makes everything so much easier. They’ve no idea where they’re going, no particular destination in mind, but that’s part of the fun, right? They can do whatever the fuck they want.

Literally. Because with the final taboo broken, there is absolutely no reason to not. From now on it’s just a numbers game.

Freedom as a concept is a beautiful one; it lures so many people in with attractive promises that can never realistically be fulfilled, mostly because it’s subjective at best. At worst, it’s a complete lie.

After they killed Alastair, Cas had turned to a traumatized Dean and told him that he sees freedom as a length of rope. Whether it’s used to hang yourself or to strangle someone else is entirely your choice; either way the result is the same as far as the state is concerned, but yet only one is punishable.

Dean’s beginning to understand exactly what that means.

Though right now, what it means is that for someone who’s spent his life playing by everyone else’s rules, Dean can finally start making up some of his own. Or maybe just alter some of Cas’s to suit himself.

Because that’s what this whole thing is about. What it’s always been about.

Ash fluttering down from the blaze like great big filthy chunks of snow, Dean turns to Cas with a slanted grin, says. “Your move, Cas.”

Castiel’s returning smile is as devious as the bastard himself. “Are you sure about that?”

Ah. So maybe it _is_ obvious.

Dean thinks he should probably be angry about it. He’s not. There’s zero point. He just needs to be smarter next time.

Which he will be.

Hopefully.

No. He _will be_.

Showcasing his uncanny knack for reading Dean’s mind, Castiel asks, “You _still_ think this a game that you can win?”

“Won’t know if I don’t play, will I?”

“Ah, but is it worth the risk?”

Dean doesn’t miss a beat, “Has been so far.”

 

***

 

So this is it.

Dean’s riding shotgun in the Impala with his worldly possessions on the back seat. Or more accurately, the possessions that were worth taking. And it’s not like Cas doesn’t have the money to buy him bigger, better versions of whatever he wants or needs any way.

So with that in mind, Dean had packed light. In his duffel bag cushioned on some clothes and the gray robe are his gun, Sammy’s graduation picture and his copy of The Abominable Dr. Phibes.

Yeah. Just the important shit.

And the final thing that he’d picked up from the last stop, much to Cas’s amusement. Not technically one of Dean’s possessions, but it is now.

He’d told Cas to keep the engine running whilst he went inside to hand in his resignation. Bela was behind the desk, serving a mother with her young daughter. Dean stopped and dug his keys out of his pocket, fingers working quickly to get the library ones off the ring. Slammed them down on the desk with a smile and a, _“Thanks for everything Bela_ ,” – not even sarcastic – before rushing off up the curved staircase, taking two at a time.

Jogging past the carrels and shelves, Dean had smiled and nodded at patrons until he’d reached the very end of the room. Crouching down on his haunches, he found what he’d been looking for.

Now on his lap sits a copy of Look Homeward, Angel.

It feels important somehow. Like it would have been strange to leave without it.

Dean’s moved around a lot in an effort to get away from the voices in his head. To outmaneuver the bad dreams that plagued his nights and the memories that cursed his days.

This is the first time that he’s leaving somewhere, but not running.

At least, not _away._

Nah, it’s more like _towards_.

Something suddenly occurs to Dean. A question that he hadn’t even thought to ask.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“What page number was the envelope bookmarking?”

There’s a brief pause, whilst Cas presumably figures out what Dean’s actually asking. When he answers, Castiel’s voice is a pleased rumble, “One hundred and fifty seven.”

Dean opens the book on his knees, thumbs through the pages until he reaches 157.

There, underlined in pencil – because Castiel would never ruin a perfectly good book – is a short passage, which at Cas’s behest, he reads aloud:

_“I am, he thought, a part of all that I have touched and that has touched me, which, having for me no existence save that which I gave to it, became other than itself by being mixed with what I then was, and is now still otherwise, having fused with what I now am, which is itself a cumulation of what I have been becoming. Why here? Why there? Why now? Why then?”_


	20. Epilogue...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a feeling that this may raise more questions than it answers. Umm. Sorry about that?
> 
> I will be responding to any and all questions/comments made on this chapter.
> 
> There's a few of you who are almost entirely responsible for me persevering with this. Hopefully you know who you are, so thank you from the bottom of my twisted, black heart.
> 
> And finally, again: No redeeming qualities whatsoever to be found in this fic. Just so you're aware.

**_*Three-ish months later*_ **

 

This is one of those places that most likely had sawdust sparsely covering the floor not all that many years ago. Seems that they’ve stopped caring now though and instead have just let it get sticky with… _fluids_. The lurid flashing neon sign outside reflected in filthy puddles proclaiming it to belong to someone called ‘Johnnie’ was a decent clue as to the kind of place that they were walking into, but Dean somehow has still managed to find increasingly more revolting details to point out to Castiel.

After all, since they left Lawrence, it’s not often that they have to ‘slum it’ like this.

Dean’s face has always been a spectacular indicator of his mood; micro expressions that may not be noticeable to anyone who doesn’t pay attention, but to Castiel – as someone who has been paying _very_ close attention to Dean for a long time – they offer insight where words fail.

At the moment Dean’s expression is less a subtle indicator than one of overt disgust as he weaves his way through the bodies back to their table, pitcher of beer in one hand, two glasses in the other.

He slides the drink and glasses onto the table and dusts off the cheap vinyl seat, before he sits down opposite Castiel.

“I wanted bottles, but they were all out.” He scrunches up his nose. “I’m not sure how many diseases we’ll get from drinking this, or if we’ll even survive. But hey, a beer’s a beer, right?” He begins pouring the rich amber liquid into one of the glasses – which looks clean enough, at least. Tops it up, switches to the other.

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “You’re selling it so well, Dean.”

He gets a sardonic smile for that one.

They might both be a little on edge.

It’s been a while since St. Louis. Dean says not long enough, but Castiel argues too long. It’s starting to gnaw at him with the ferocity of a starved wolf and whilst there are coping techniques that he’s more than a little grateful to Dean for coming up with, after a while, he just needs _it._

It’s a compulsion; has been for as long as he can remember.

But it wasn’t until Dean that he felt the need to put his urges into actions. Well. Worthwhile ones at least. Justification means nothing to Castiel, but everything to Dean.

There’s a lot of evil in the world, and Dean has experienced a solid 90% of it – at least 65% of which is in Castiel – but that’s neither here nor there. If Castiel can channel his need to kill into something that makes Dean safer, then maybe he can get that number down to an even 62%. Dean almost certainly deserves better, but in Castiel’s defense, he never meant for this to happen. Not at first anyway, but he learned the hard way that good intentions count for nothing, and they certainly change nothing.

Castiel takes a sip of his beer – which is surprisingly refreshing and not quite the pond water Dean was making it out to be – and lets his gaze skim over the steadily amassing crowd, before turning his attention back to Dean.

Like always.

Like he’s ever been able to look away for any prolonged period of time.

Love at first sight was not an ideology that Castiel used to subscribe to. Love itself was a concept that Castiel believed to be nothing more than a series of chemical reactions that made people do and say stupid shit. Like the time that Gabriel broke his arm trying to impress a boy he liked by literally climbing a building.

But then Dean Winchester.

Obsession is a word that gets tossed around like dilution is the key to taking away its meaning, that teenage girls who love the latest pop sensation are ‘obsessed’ and ‘fixated’, like it somehow removes the negative stigma and replaces it with something a little more benign. Maybe it does.

But that’s not what obsession means. At least not to Castiel.

To Castiel it means sleepless nights where even in the pitch blackness the only color available is a very particular shade of green, it means years of meticulous planning and hundreds of thousands of dollars spent because most people will do anything if you pay them enough. And of course, failing that, there’s always the second, more preferable, permanent option.

Whether it’s a judge here, a parole officer there, it doesn’t matter. It’s all very simple.

And ‘hella creepy’ according to Gabriel. But he once stood outside a girl’s window for twenty four hours playing 80s love songs on a lute until a neighbor informed him that she’d moved, so his opinion on all things romance is probably not one that Castiel should take into account.

Castiel knows what he is. Knows that under normal circumstances he shouldn’t have been allowed within a hundred miles of something so pure, so clean, lest he taint it.

And yet, here they are.

Dean’s eyes catch and hold Castiel’s in such an effortless way that by now Castiel has almost stopped being surprised by it.

Almost.

“So, okay. It’s not the worst thing ever.” He concedes with a mischievous grin that’s all for Castiel.

Admiring from a distance only gets you so far though, and Castiel just couldn’t help himself. Understandably, Dean was skittish and mistrustful at first. Castiel’s way around that may have been a little unorthodox, but it worked. Because again, here they are.

There are days when they wake up curled up together in a huge comfy hotel bed, not an inch of space or stitch of clothing between their bodies, flat plane of Dean’s shoulder blade snug against Castiel’s cheek, where he can’t physically let Dean go. Never again. Not now that he knows what every inch of perfection tastes like, what it looks like when it’s sloppy drunk, or scared, or turned on.

It’s oh so dangerous.

But Castiel knew that from the very first time that he saw Dean. So strong and determined, but excruciatingly vulnerable at the same time. Though it wasn’t until their first actual interaction and then the subsequent time they spent together that the game became something else entirely. Because Dean turned out to be more interesting than anyone that attractive had any right to be.

So Castiel hasn’t so much rebuilt Dean in his own image, as he has filled in the cracks made by others’ carelessness and deliberate destruction with his own brand of empowerment.

And holy fuck, it’s just about the most beautiful thing that Castiel has ever seen.

Not that he’s the only one who notices of course.

Even here, where the music and alcohol should be enough of a distraction, nearly everyone who passes their table on the way to the restroom performs a comedic double-take when they get a good look at Dean. Of course, Castiel gets his fair share of admirers too, but his focus is on glaring at the ones who eye Dean up like Castiel isn’t even there.

Dean doesn’t necessarily encourage them – not as such – but he definitely doesn’t _discourage_ them either.

Which is Castiel’s fault. He knows it is.

Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Empowering Dean involved taking his perception of the world and not only rectifying it, but then going at least ten thousand steps beyond that and twisting and warping it until it mirrored Castiel’s. It was a risky tactic at best and grossly negligent at worst, because Castiel had no idea that after only four months Dean would have adapted _so well._

He’s got Castiel’s weakness pinned down to a fine art and it’s at the point now where taping up his bloody knuckles is such an aphrodisiac for Dean, that they frequently end up flouting public decency laws in favor of Dean showing him just how much he appreciates Castiel’s possessive tendencies.

He would have absolutely no problem whatsoever with laying waste to every fucker in this place if it meant that they never got to breathe the same air as Dean.

Dean knows it. Counts on it on nights like these when Castiel needs it.

It’s all part of their compromise – a fucking _compromise_ , and if that isn’t true love, then he doesn’t know what is – where Castiel gets to take the edge off by getting into non-fatal fights and/or fucking Dean to within an inch of whatever’s left of their collective sanity, and Dean gets the peace of mind knowing that ‘innocent’ people aren’t dying by Castiel’s hand.

Sometimes though, it’s just not enough.

Castiel drains his beer, reaches for the handle of the pitcher. Dean covers Castiel’s hand with his own.

“You okay, Cas?”

There are enough things that Castiel can never tell Dean. He doesn’t want this to be another one. “Just deciding.”

“You need any help?”

Dean’s involvement in his kills has been mostly kept to a minimum; he’ll help with disposal sometimes, clean-up on the rare occasion. It was a ground rule set by Dean not long after they left Lawrence and one that Castiel has tried his hardest to respect, which is in part, due to the aforementioned compromise. Mostly though, it’s because Dean knows what went down the day with the police officer back in Lawrence and is still yet to make the move that they both know is coming.

Now, Castiel is a patient man; has had to be. Three years from the first time he saw Dean across the courtroom to the first time he spoke to him is a long time in anyone’s books, but this is _torture_. He thinks he’s entitled to be a little suspicious of Dean’s motives at this point.

The irony is not lost on Castiel.

It’s also occurred to him that that may be the point.

Castiel scrutinizes Dean’s features for any signs that he’s fucking with him, but finds nothing except for a genuine desire to help. He relaxes minutely, but his heartbeat is kicking up, thrilled at the prospect. “Thought that went against the rules?”

Dean shrugs indifferently, but there’s a slight tic in the clench of his jaw that gives him away. “The rules are open to change, right? You taught me that. Don’t like something, I have the power to change it.”

He’s paraphrasing, but that’s essentially it. “Are you saying that you’re tired of trying to maintain some semblance of innocence?”

“My innocence went for a long walk off a short pier quite some fucking time ago, Cas.”

Castiel grins. “Hence, _’semblance._ ’”

Dean’s returning smile is bright and beautiful. “Asshole.”

Castiel’s about to reply when he abruptly becomes aware of a creeping, prickling sensation between his shoulder blades; someone’s eyes on them like a physical weight. He looks up sharply, searching for the source. It only takes a quick glance around for Castiel to clock a decent looking man in a three piece suit – clearly out of his element or possibly in the wrong place – leaning against the bar, blond hair slicked back and perfect. He’s staring at them both, gaze switching from Dean to Castiel and then back again, like a dog torn between two juicy steaks.

“It’s your choice Dean.” Castiel says. Means it too, but sometimes his actions don’t match up to his words. In theory, everything has been Dean’s choice. In practice, Castiel may have manipulated certain events, weighted the scales in his favour, but ultimately Dean’s here through his own decisions.

Dean’s eyes follow Castiel’s, “Yeah?”

“You know it is.”

Castiel rips his attention away from the stranger to regard Dean carefully; to see if he’s actually considering this or merely being a tease.

“Like Benny was my choice?”

Ah. Benny. That was his name. What a perfect time to bring that up. “Benny _was_ your choice.”

“Yeah,” Dean says with a hint of annoyance, though there’s a wicked glint in his eyes, “but the cards were fucking stacked, Cas.”

Castiel doesn’t point out that the entire game has been played with a stacked deck. Instead, he says, “So do something about it.”

He’s expecting Dean to – not back down, because that day in his office at KU made it crystal clear that Dean won’t be doing that ever again – maybe give Castiel a hard time about it. Start stirring shit. What Castiel is not expecting Dean to do is get up and begin pushing his way through the crowd, making a beeline for the bar.

It takes Castiel a split second too long to figure out what’s happening.

Dean is doing something about it.

“ _Dean_.” It’s a warning, bitten out like a curse, but it goes unheeded, crushed under the layers of voices and Joan Osborne on the jukebox.

This can’t be taken back. Once Dean does this, that’s it. He’s an active participant. For real. No manipulation in any way on Castiel’s part. No stacked decks. No loaded dice.

Three-piece-suit guy looks like he can’t quite believe his luck when Dean approaches him, a little too much sway in those hips that still bear bruises from Castiel’s fingertips to be anything other than flirtatious, and he’s clearly interested if the way he looks at Dean like an alcoholic would a tall frosty glass of beer is any indication. Castiel watches on, grips the empty glass in his hand with enough force to make it shatter.

And here it comes; black and thick, like tar, devouring any sense of reasoning. Makes him oblivious to anything other than the way his pulse is thrumming in his veins, everything sliding into softer focus.

Dean leans right in close, palm pressed flat to the man’s chest, keeping Castiel in his periphery, gauging his reaction. He’s saying something that has the guy’s eyes widening, before flicking up to Castiel.

Dean knows that this is dangerous.  He knows that he can’t force Castiel so far into the red that the glass on the pressure gauge is fractured, steam escaping, and still expect that the man will walk away from this. He’s practically painting a target on the guy’s back.

If Castiel squints hard enough the red paint could be mistaken for blood.

Dean is deciding for him. Goading him into it. Daring him.

He wonders if Dean’s stopped hiding behind the ‘innocent’ and ‘good man’ bullshit or whether it’s at the forefront of his mind as he steers three-piece back to their table and towards his death.

Having a conscience must be quite a hindrance.

“Cas. This is Bradley.”

Bradley extends his hand as if Castiel is going to take it when the other one is on the small of Dean’s back. Where Castiel’s should be. Where nobody but Castiel has the right to be. Instead, Castiel can feel the urge creeping back up his throat like bile and he’s already desperate to reach for the flick knife in his jeans pocket, imagining himself opening it and jamming it deep into Bradley’s femoral artery.

But he’s interested to see where Dean’s taking this, so he relaxes minutely and releases his vice-like grip on the glass.

He can play nice.

He looks up at Bradley, all false smiles and the same kind of charm he lays on when he absolutely has to, thick and sugary. “Nice to meet you Bradley,” he shakes a hand that’s cold and clammy. “I’m Castiel.” He can’t stop himself from adding a just-this-side-of-too-hard squeeze and, “Dean’s boyfriend.”

It doesn’t come close to describing what they are, but it works well enough in situations like this.

“Nice to meet you both.” He slides into Dean’s side of the booth, with Dean following him in, crushing up against him completely unnecessarily. Castiel shoots Dean the most hostile look that he can, hopefully conveying very deeply how much he’s saying ‘fuck you’ without needing to verbalize a word. Judging by the way Dean’s lips twitch into a smug smirk, the message is received loud and clear.

Bradley looks between Castiel and Dean, a stupid grin on his face that gives away just how pleased he is to be sitting with them, completely oblivious to their silent conversation. “Yeah. You’re both so – well, you have to know what you look like. Must be my lucky night.”

“Something like that.” Castiel mutters, still staring Dean down, but now he’s looking for any signs of doubt, any outward indication that Dean isn’t okay with this and the inevitable outcome. There are none and Castiel is quietly impressed. Perhaps this is something that Dean has been contemplating for some time.

“So,” Dean says, giving Bradley one of those wide, easy-going smiles that makes Castiel want to incinerate everyone within a ten mile radius, because _they’re not fucking worthy_. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this? You lost?”

“Car broke down.” Bradley says around a huge gulp of his drink; some fruity concoction that looks like it would register pretty heavily on a Geiger counter. “About half a mile back. No cell reception, so I hiked it here. Used a payphone in the motel office to call for a tow, but they said that they wouldn’t be able to make it out until morning. As luck would have it, the motel had rooms spare, so I took one for the night. Decided to come drown my sorrows in here and here we are.”

Dean and Castiel exchange glances. No words have to be said; the understanding is inherent.

“What kind of car is it?” Castiel asks, feigning interest. He doesn’t care of course, just needs to know for the clean-up in the early hours. “Dean’s good with cars.”

“Yeah?” Bradley turns a little, eyes raking over Dean’s face, pausing on his lips in a way that has Castiel imagining how much better Bradley would look strung up and gutted, intestines tumbling out like party streamers, “I bet you’re good with a lot of things.”

Knives, guns, scalpels.

“Maybe,” Dean hedges, shifting away a little, visibly uncomfortable. “I have my moments.”

It’s just a shame that Castiel has missed far too many of them; there are parts in the beginning that he didn’t get to see, like the altercation under the bridge, or the rather well-aimed shot in the graveyard. Castiel isn’t one for regrets, but if he had any, that would be it. Because Dean had been magnificent with Alastair and Benny.

“It’s a Mustang Rocket.” And the second the words are out of Bradley’s mouth, Dean’s reacting. It’s not a good reaction.

A car is a car to Castiel, but he’s trying to learn for Dean. He mentally adds this one to the ever-growing list of ‘piles of shit’.

But at least they’ll know what to look for along the highway now – or Dean will.

“Ah. Bit too modern for me.” Dean says. “I’m sure the garage will be able to take care of it for you though. With these newer cars it’s usually something simple. You’ll be on your way again in no time. The overnight stop isn’t going to make you miss anything important is it?”

It’s flawless the way he prods for information. Important questions asked under the guise of casual interest. Pride flares in Castiel’s chest. So so perfect. He’s a natural at this.

“Nah,” Bradley waves a dismissive hand. “I’m visiting home for the week, but it was supposed to be a surprise so they’re not expecting me. I didn’t want to say anything and get their expectations up and then not be able to go, y’know?”

Castiel nods solemnly, keeping a lid on the steadily growing buzz in his bones. “You sound like a good man, Bradley.”

Dean’s flinch is so minor that it goes undetected by Bradley. But not by Castiel.

“I guess so,” Bradley shrugs, but he’s obviously pleased with the unexpected – not outwardly insincere – praise. “I try to be, y’know?”

Dean’s chewing on his lower lip, thinking about something. Probably a way to back out of this mess he’s created.

“Of course,” Castiel replies, trying to sound even the slightest bit convinced, “I’m sure that your family are very lucky to have you.” It might seem cruel, maybe is a little bit. But Dean needs to be _certain_ about this.

Bradley ducks his head, embarrassed. It would be endearing if Castiel had a mind to care.

If he hadn’t put his hands on Dean.

“Well, either way, looks like their loss is our gain.” Dean says suddenly, decisively, words chosen carefully. “This calls for a celebration. Shots?” He’s asking Castiel, deferring to him, making sure that this is it.

“Sounds good.” Castiel’s smile is genuine this time. Just for Dean. Always just for Dean.

Dean nods to himself. Takes a deep steadying breath, “Cool. Be right back. Play nice.” And he’s sliding out of the booth, using Castiel’s shoulder for leverage as he rises, but they both know it’s more than that. Contact that’s needed. Reassurance.

 

 

 

***

 

A couple of _very long_ hours later sees Bradley finally where Castiel wants him. Almost. Six feet under is the ultimate goal, but this here is acceptable in the interim.

His hands and ankles are bound by an intricate network of cable ties – Castiel learned the hard way years ago that given just the right amount of sudden stress, a single tie could snap – and he’s in a sitting position, propped up against the radiator that, judging by the layer of filth caked to it, hasn’t seen any kind of cleaning product since the late eighties. One of his legs is twisted at a wrong angle; a result of his futile attempt to get away and is now serving as a strong deterrent/impedance.

It took until he was completely restrained for Bradley to finally make the shift from aroused to frightened and Castiel blames that at least partly on the drink spiking, but mostly on the man’s desperate hope that all this bondage was a prelude to a threesome. Just the mere notion makes Castiel want to snap the rest of Bradley’s bones one at a fucking time, but this is all on Dean, so he refrains, settles for a deceptively tender pat to the man’s reddening cheek.

A spark of hope flares in Bradley’s eyes at the gesture and Castiel knows exactly what’s running through his mind, has seen it too many times. Observing Bradley, Castiel addresses Dean, “Knife or gun?” And that’s it, Bradley resumes his squirming against the restraints, too much white around his pupil and iris showing, and his pleas are muffled behind the rectangle of duct tape across his mouth. His hair's not perfect anymore.

When Castiel gets no audible reply he swivels on his haunches to face Dean. Dean who’s watching Castiel, mouth set in a thin line, frown marring that pretty face, all grim determination like this is something he _has_ to do, rather than something he’s choosing. “I assumed I would have to use the knife?”

“Why? If you want to use a gun, then you can. It’s probably better for your first proper time. There’s a silencer in that duffel over there. Grab the hollow points as well.”

“This ain’t my first rodeo, Cas. You’ve already popped my homicide cherry.” If Castiel didn’t know any better, he’d think that Dean is almost indignant about his casual dismissal of his efforts in the murders of Alastair and Benny.

“I’m aware, but we both know this is different.”

Dean doesn’t reply to that as he rummages around in the bag. Instead he mutters, “Hollow points though, really? Seems a bit much.”

“There’s a reason.” Castiel says, straightening up as Dean pulls out the box of bullets along with the silencer. He snatches his customized, untraceable Beretta 92 off the nightstand and passes it to Dean.

Dean screws the suppressor to the end of the barrel, starts loading bullets into the magazine with an efficiency born of practise. It’s one thing that Castiel hasn’t needed to teach him, “Besides sadism?”

“Hollow points are designed for controlled penetration and to remain inside the body. No exit wound means less mess. A lot less.”

Dean swallows hard, glances over to his right at the helpless Bradley, something akin to pity flickering across his features, before he shuts it down and looks back at Castiel, “Jesus fucking Christ, Cas.”

Castiel closes the gap between them, reaches up to touch Dean. He’s half expecting him to move away or flinch – gives him the chance to do either or both – but Dean stays exactly where he is, actually leaning into the contact. Cupping Dean’s face in his hands, days end stubble rough against his fingertips, Castiel scrutinizes Dean for even the tiniest twitch, the slightest giveaway in his expression, asks, “Dean. Are you _sure_ about this?”

He’ll be disappointed of course, but he’ll still get his kill and Dean will… well. Dean will require some kind of pacification, but it’ll be okay, because Castiel promised that it would be.

That hue of green with its sometimes indiscernible flecks of gold seizes and holds him, so open and ingenuous, “Yeah, Cas. I am. I wanna be good for you.”

“You are Dean. So good. Always been so good for me. Even without this.” It’s the absolute truth.

Dean’s all fierce determination and fiery willpower, sounding like he’s dragging the words up from the depths of his soul, when he says, adamant, “This is part of who you are. And I love you. So it’s that simple for me. I wanna make your world _ours_ , Cas. I don’t wanna be on the outside looking in. I want this. I want you.”

Fuck.

Because nothing has ever made more sense, he kisses Dean. A soft press of lips that they both melt into, sliding effortlessly into something deep and almost lazy, passing kiss after kiss back and forth, hot and wonderful and just as amazing as ever. They twist themselves around each other, closer, _always closer_ , Dean’s arm coiling tight around Castiel’s waist, the gun in his hand resting low and cool against Castiel’s hip through his shirt. Time stretches around them without snapping and it’s only with the high pitched whimper of Bradley that Castiel reluctantly pulls away, thumb stroking delicately over the perfect swell of Dean’s bottom lip.

“How do you want to do this?”

Dean inhales a ragged breath, corralling the fragments of himself together, “Don’t want you behind me, Cas. Like you’re pulling the strings, like you’re in control. Wanna be able to see you.” Like it’s somehow more important, he adds, “Want you to be able to see me.”

That’s never been an issue.

“I’m right here.” Where he’s always going to be. It’s a vow, a promise that he’ll never even consider breaking. How could he? He’d die first and it’s the nature of that absolute devotion that has him understanding how religions are started, how gods are created, how zealots find it in themselves to justify their actions, “Close your eyes and give me your hand.”

Dean obeys without question, fluttering sweep of dark eyelashes against freckles, swapping the pistol into his right hand and holding out his left. Castiel takes it and presses Dean’s palm against his chest, holding it firmly over his heart. “Do you feel that?”

Dean gives the barest of nods, catches his bottom lip between his teeth.

Castiel reaches out mere inches and touches his own palm to Dean’s chest through his worn shirt, warmth of his skin bleeding through. Dean’s heartrate is fast, but steady.

“I feel you too. I’m right here, Dean.”

It’s the same beat shared between two. The touchstone of their existence, of their shared reality.

Dean’s eyes flicker open, shining and wet, glistening in the low light. “ _Cas_.”

“Not going anywhere.” It’s soft and private, intimate in a way that leaves Castiel feeling raw and exposed; that afternoon in his office all over again, “Never gonna leave you.” To prove his point he moves in closer, until they’re almost hip to hip, smell and feel of Dean filling up Castiel’s senses, his steadily increasing heart beat underneath Castiel’s fingertips. “I’ve got you. It’s all gonna be okay. Do you trust me?”

“Of course.” It’s immediate, no hesitation and the tiny corner of Castiel that’s not shrouded in darkness wishes that Dean had at least thought about it first. Of course the rest of him is overjoyed that he’s won over Dean’s heart, mind and body so completely.

“Look at him.” Castiel whispers, voice hoarse. Dean does, turning his head away to the right so that Castiel gets his profile, the freckled slope of his nose, delicate sweep of his cheekbone. “Aim for his heart, Dean.”

Facing sideways on as they are, Castiel could easily turn to watch Bradley take his last breath, but his eyes are drawn to Dean – as always – because there’s just no competition, really. Never has been. There’ll be other kills, other Bradley’s, other no-name motels, but there’ll never be another chance to watch Dean kill for the first time entirely of his own volition. And Castiel wants to see every moment, just as much – if not more – as Dean wants to be seen.

Dean raises the gun, holding it at arm’s length, index finger poised over the trigger. Castiel can feel Dean’s heart fluttering, like a bird in a cage and his own is doing the same, dragged along for the ride on an invisible leash. Bradley’s panicked whimpers are growing steadily louder, stifled pleas for mercy that fall on deaf ears, but it won’t matter in about ten seconds. Doesn’t matter now either. Not when it’s so effortless to get distracted by the way Dean’s throat works as he swallows, by the tiny bead of sweat that slowly works its way down his temple, by the way his heartrate suddenly spikes, by the way he lets out a single shaky breath a millisecond before he pulls the trigger, every muscle in his body coiled tight.

He only shoots once, silencer keeping the gunshot to nothing more than a muffled clap, and then seconds later the air turns wet and coppery, thick with more than just the death of the man slumped against the radiator.

It doesn't matter that Castiel didn't physically complete the kill himself. Doesn’t matter that he didn’t even see it. They're so closely intertwined now that he felt every second of it through Dean and his wildly beating heart, got to view every single facet of emotion that Dean experienced during his first proper kill.

It was undoubtedly the most erotic experience of Castiel’s life.

When Dean turns back to him, inevitable as the tides, his eyes have darkened to an unfathomable forest green; no less vivid, but shadow filled. He’s still as beautiful as ever, but now there’s an underlying trace of something darker beyond the Dean Winchester allure.

His heart rate is starting to slow, and along with it, so does Castiel’s.

Neither of them speak or move for several long moments.

“ _Cas_.” It’s a barely there whisper, not much more than a voiced thought.

Castiel wants to take the gun from Dean’s hand. Wants to, but doesn’t. “What do you need, Dean?”

“You.” And with the one hand still pressed to Castiel’s chest, he shoves hard enough that Castiel stumbles, backs of his knees hitting the edge of the bed in the tiny motel room and he ends up sprawling backwards onto the ugly bedspread. “ _God, Cas_.” And then Dean is on him, thighs caging him in, one on either side of Castiel’s hips, as Castiel shoves himself up on his elbows, desire for Dean threading through his surprise, “Need you. Need you to fuck me.”

Of all the reactions he was anticipating, this wasn’t one of them. It’s the second time that Dean’s caught him off guard tonight.

If Castiel hadn’t already been achingly, blindingly hard by Dean’s elegant execution of Bradley, then his near-frantic declaration would have done it. As it happens, he is one hundred percent on board with the idea of fucking Dean and lets out a rough groan to signify it to him. " _Fuck_ , Dean. You never cease to amaze me."

Dean thumbs the safety on, before tossing the gun to the floor. It makes a dull thunk as it lands next to Bradley’s lifeless left foot, nudging at his black Oxford, but neither of them are paying attention; Dean’s drunk on a lethal combination of lust, power and adrenaline, completely focused on Castiel, who in turn can’t concentrate on anything but the way Dean is grinding down against him. It’s desperate and feverish and not nearly enough; between their layers of clothing the friction is maddening, far too mild to be anything other than a filthy tease.

Which isn’t what either of them need right now.

Castiel lets himself be pushed completely back down onto the bed, elbows no longer supporting his weight. Dean’s clumsy with lust, fingers fumbling at Castiel’s jeans, popping the button, tugging the zipper down.

Castiel’s hands slide up underneath Dean’s shirt, flat plane of his stomach beneath his palms. Dean gasps and arches his back when Castiel’s thumbs brush over his nipples, always so sensitive. “Shirt off.”

Leaning back on his heels, Dean does, pulling at the hem, sweeping the material up and off, leaving his torso deliciously bare, all smooth skin and compact muscle, “You too, Cas. Wanna see you.”

It seems to be the running theme for the evening.

Sitting up, nose to chin with Dean straddling him the way he is, Castiel manages to get rid of his shirt, tossing it somewhere to his left, vaguely hoping – but not really caring – that it doesn’t land on or too near the body.

Dean takes advantage of the position and loops his arms around Castiel’s neck, angling his head down so that he can kiss him, though it’s more of a clumsy, open-mouthed tongue-fuck than anything resembling the tender moment they shared earlier. Castiel wraps his arms around Dean’s waist, palm flat to the small of his back, holds him there as they breathe into each other, tongues sliding hot, filthy and wet, before Dean makes a needy impatient whimper in the back of his throat.

Pulling away from the embrace and inching backwards off the bed until his bare feet hit the gaudy carpet, Dean shucks out of his jeans and boxer briefs, before tugging on Castiel’s jeans, communicating wordlessly for him to be doing the same, shoving them down past his thighs when Castiel arches his back off the bed.

It all happens in a matter of seconds and Castiel barely has time to process anything before Dean’s crawling back up onto the bed; weight settling in against the length of Castiel’s body, a knee either side of Castiel’s thighs, straddling his hips, perfect drag of his ass against Castiel’s painfully hard dick as he moves restlessly, impatient to get fucked. Dark eyes on Castiel, he brings his index and middle fingers up to his pink mouth, sucking them between his lips, easing them in and out, glistening wet, holding Castiel’s gaze the entire time. He pulls them out with an over-exaggerated pop and reaches down and around, pushing the spit-slick digits inside himself with a shuddering groan, whole body tensing like a bow string pulled taut, trembling against the intrusion.

Castiel watches, utterly enraptured as Dean rides his own hand, stretching himself open, head tilted back, spine a beautiful arch, bitten off moans and low rasps of pleasure. All of the times, all of the different ways that they’ve fucked, they’ve never done anything like this where Dean is so…

So in control.

Castiel’s eyes are drawn to the flutter of Dean’s pulse just below the surface of his skin, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, the drag of his tongue over those perfect lips. He slides his hands up Dean’s thighs, round to his ass and squeezes hard, eliciting a throaty groan from Dean that has Castiel far too close to his orgasm already and he growls out a strained, “So _Perfect._ Need to be inside you. _Now_.”

Luckily, Dean seems to feel the same as he curses and pulls his fingers from his body, bracing himself against Castiel’s chest with shaking hands and rocks his hips, head of Castiel’s cock wet with precome slipping between his cheeks, over his hole. One hand releasing the firm muscle of Dean’s ass, Castiel holds his dick so that Dean can slide down his length, hot, tight muscles clenching.

He’s still open enough from their fuck earlier, that the dry drag is just this side of the pleasure/pain divide and he feels so good, always does – _always so tight, fuck_ – but there’s something different about this time that has Castiel’s heart stuttering in his chest as Dean sinks all the way down, perfect curve of his ass resting in the cradle of Castiel’s pelvis. It’s not just the control thing either. Dean gives himself a few seconds to adjust before he’s lifting up, body hovering over Castiel’s for just a split second before dropping back down an inch at a time.

Fully seated again, Dean leans over Castiel, hands still braced on his chest – one damp palm over his heart again, like he can’t not – and begins rolling his hips in tight little circles, light sheen of sweat clinging to his flawless skin, cock flushed and hard and curved up towards his stomach. He’s fucking beautiful, perfect, and if this is what Dean looks like in control, then Castiel is entirely okay with letting this happen more often.

Fingernails digging into the curve of Dean’s ass, Castiel bucks his hips up, meeting Dean some of the way, trying to give as good as he’s getting, but with every slick glide of their bodies, Dean’s riding him harder and faster, threatening to unpick what’s left of Castiel’s sanity.

All he can do is grip Dean tighter, new bruises superimposed over the old ones, the ones that mark Dean out as _his_ , pulling him down onto his cock over and over again, burying himself deep inside.

“Cas.” Dean’s voice cracks and breaks on a plea as he hitches his hips, his perfect, deadly body moving in a way that has Castiel wishing they’d done this before Dean had killed Bradley, so he could watch. Watch and understand just how thoroughly Dean belongs to him. Not anyone else. Especially not little blond fuckboys who –

“Uhhh. Fuck. _Gonna_ –“

Castiel isn’t quite sure how he manages to dredge up enough cognizance to process Dean’s words, to interpret the now-familiar tightening of Dean’s inner muscles, but he just about manages a choked off, “No, not yet,” and slips his hand down to the base of Dean’s cock, squeezing there firmly, staving off Dean’s orgasm.

Dean trembles with helpless little jerks of his hips, desperate to come, deep gasping breaths alternating with low whines. “Please Cas, need it, _pleasepleaseplease_ –“

Adjusting their position for more leverage, Castiel plants his feet flat on the bed, bends his knees, and thrusts up, relishing the fluttering of Dean’s eyelashes, the ragged inhale, “You wanna come? Is that what you – _fuck_ – need?”

Burning green from beneath half-lidded eyes stare him down, pure defiance, and Castiel wants nothing more than to cave, to give Dean what he wants, what they both want.

But that’s not how this works.

“Wanna come, Cas. P-please. Need to.”

Another well-aimed upwards jab of Castiel’s hips has Dean’s groan guttering off into a frustrated growl, “Thought you needed me?”

“I do.” Dean moans, well-versed in this particular song and dance. “Need you all the time, Cas. Think about you – _Jesus, fuck_ – about this all the fucking time. So – _ugh_ – so hot.” Castiel smears his thumb over the slit of Dean’s cock, earning a hissed ‘ _motherfucker_ ’.

He's allowed a split second of feeling smug before Dean twists his body in _just_ the right way, tight hot pressure perfect around Castiel’s cock making him groan, hips shoving into Dean, fingers flexing on Dean’s dick. “Fuck.” Dean murmurs, fucking up into Castiel’s fist, then back onto Castiel’s cock with equal desperation, like he can’t decide which feels better. Castiel can sense Dean getting close again, so he stops just short, tightening his grip once more, earning himself the dirtiest look he might have ever been on the receiving end of.

“Why do you need me, Dean?” He’s not sure how much more of this he can take himself.

Dean’s letting out these little shivery moans, eyes rolling back in his head as he continues to ride Castiel in jagged, stilted movements, hands in his hair, looking like he’s a couple of seconds away from pulling it out by the roots. “ _Cas pleaseplease baby, please. Need it, need it so fucking bad –”_

“Why do you need _me_ , Dean.” Castiel repeats through clenched teeth. He’s there, right there on the precipice, edges of his vision beginning to white out.

Dean’s practically sobbing and Castiel’s pretty sure that he isn’t far behind. “ _Fuckfuckfuck_. You keep me safe, Cas. Make me feel loved -- _Wanted_. Fucking powerful. _Please_.”

Relief floods Castiel and he jacks Dean’s cock from base to tip as he murmurs words of praise, “Good boy. So good for me, Dean. So beautiful. Mine in every sense of the fucking word.”

“ _Yours, Cas. Always yours._ ” Dean’s whole body seizes, clenching down around Castiel so tight that he can’t help the growl that rips through his chest, his own orgasm hitting him a split second later, Dean’s come streaking his stomach as he slicks Dean up on the inside, marking him as his.

“ _Fuck_ , Dean.”

Dean collapses on top of him, a heavy, but reassuring weight, and even though they’re both soaked in sweat and come, Castiel lies there for a few moments, just letting Dean rest against him, fingertips stroking down Dean’s back.

They’ll need to sort the body out soon, and the car, but for now this here is good.

Nose buried in Castiel’s sweat-drenched hairline, Dean’s muffled, wrecked voice rasps, “Pretty sure it’s your move _now_ , Cas.”

It takes a few seconds for cerebral function to return, for the words to seep in to his brain, but then Castiel can feel a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Mmhmm. Certainly looks that way.”

Now the real fun begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys.
> 
> If you have any burning questions, you can always ask them here, or via [ my Tumblr. ](http://not-a-natural-born-idjit.tumblr.com/)


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